"Are you going to give yourself up?" she breathed.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps."
She would have liked to go back to her father's room, throw herself on her knees, entreat him for Pedro. He could help—she knew that; he could at least contrive to send Pedro out of Jaen. But that her father should learn that there was anything between her and young de Vargas was an idea too terrifying to contemplate. Besides, prudence told her that her suit would be useless: it would bring down the Marquis's wrath upon her, and WouId make matters worse for Pedro himself.
"Perhaps," he repeated. "But I'll wait till morning."
It crossed her mind that she could hide him here; there were several rooms in the palace where no one went, where he would be safe. But again the risk appalled her. Better not—
She wrung her hands. "I'll pray for you."
He was deeply moved. It did not occur to him that she could help him othenA'ise. The thought of hJmself in the prayers of Luisa de
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Carvajal was enough—more than enough—a dizz)' honor that restored a measure of confidence.
"If you will do that, I need nothing else."
It seemed to her that she heard footsteps again. Perhaps the doorman, waiting below, had grown suspicious, would climb the stairs to investigate.
"I'll pray for you always. You must go now."
"Yes, of course."
His green eyes were burning. She could almost feel the heat of them on her upturned face. . . . Surely there were footsteps.
"You must go . . . Hurry!"
"Listen, querida mia, this trouble will pass. I shall fight my way through. Then I'll come back. I'll come back with my head up. It's a vow. Remember that—and pray for me."
"I'll always remember," she whispered. "HurnM I'm afraid . . ."
Opening the door, he disappeared into the darkness of the hall. She heard the click of his heels on the stairs beyond and the faint rattle of his sword.
Sinking to her knees, she besought the Virgin for him, praying a long time with hot, aching eyes and a lump in her throat. But somehow it brought her no comfort; she had no conviction that her prayer reached beyond the oaken beams of the ceiling. It was easy to pray.
"After all," she thought weakly, "I'm only a girl. It would have been improper to have done more. It was improper anyway. Maria! If anyone knew that I had spoken with him here! Salve Regina! Queen of Heaven, protect Pedro de Vargas!"
Again the prayer dropped like a pellet of lead.
After the doorman, none too graciously, had seen him out, Pedro walked across to the shadow of the plane trees and stood pondering. His glimpse of Luisa had the effect of a cordial; it heated his blood and raised his spirits. But it had not changed the thorny difficulties of his position; he had still to find shelter for the night, and he had still to decide what he would do after that. Should he give himself up, or should he follow Manuel Perez's advice and make for the sierra? What he most wanted now was time to think.
In the darkness of the plane trees, he was balancing one course against the other when, as often happens in such cases, events took charge. Without warning, a group of men, carrying lanterns, burst into the little plaza and headed straight between the trees. The light on their corselets and headpieces, the rattle and jangle of them, denoted the
watch or, at least, an armed squad of soldiers. Pedro had only a second in which to step behind a tree and to make himself as small as possible.
"I'll bet that cursed fellow was lying," growled one of the party. "Why would de Vargas be hammering on His Grace's door at this hour? It's a wrong scent."
Pedro held his breath. The posse was indeed looking for him. Some loiterer, whom he had not been aware of, had recognized him as he stood at the door of the palace, and had reported him.
"It's the only scent we have," retorted another. "Probably he got wind of something—thought the Marquis was his best chance. We'll wait a minute, then do some hammering ourselves."
They had come to a stop witlriin three feet of Pedro, who stood glued to the tree trunk. A voice demurred that they had better think twice before interrupting the Marquis's repose. But the other, who seemed to be an ofnccr, cut him off.
"Christ!" he swore. "I've had my orders to bring young de Vargas in wherever I found him. The Holy OfSce doesn't care for duke or marquis. It won't hurt to wake the porter, will it? I'd rather face him than His Reverence."
It wasn't the watch then; these were de Lora's people. The shifting lantern beams darted here and there. Pedro wondered whether he shouldn't make a break for it. The instinct of flight blotted out the thought of surrender.
"Ho! By God, who's this!"
In a flash Pedro cut loose from the tree trunk and raced for the nearest street opening.
Raucous whoops sounded behind him, and a scurry of feet. "Al ladron! Al ladron!"
With his cloak over one arm, his sword hitched up to free his movements, Pedro dashed forward headlong, aimless for the moment except to shake off pursuit. With a head start and unencumbered by armor, he had the advantage; but the men who followed were no mean runners either, and their shouts reached in front of him.
''Al ladronr
A group emerging from an inn blocked his road, and he had to cut back to an alleyway, thus coming almost within reach of his pursuers. He felt the fingers of one of them brush his shoulders, but a leap set him ahead again. God grant that the alley wasn't a dead end! No, it opened to the right.
''Al ladronr
He catapulted against two heavy figures in the dark and heard their
yells mingle in the growing clamor behind. He turned left, then right, and found himself on the path that followed the inner side of the town walls. But exactly where? Yes, it wasn't far to the North Gate, If he turned in that direction, the densest quarter of the town, he was lost. His one chance lay to the east, though it meant an uphill climb. One part of the wall there was lower, and from childhood, when he and other boys had raided near-by orchards, he knew the trick of scaling it. '"Al ladron!'' The following pack had caught sight of him in the moonlight. Panting, he turned along the upward curve of the path.
It was a grueling course. Blocks of stone, which had fallen from the neglected wall. Uttered the way and made running hard. The slope grew steeper. It was especially unfavorable to those who had dined and wined late, or to those of more years than agility. Without turning his head, Pedro could hear the chase stringing out; the yells were more distant, the footsteps more spaced. But do what he could, one pair of jackboots kept pace with him, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, though a clanking sound which accompanied them showed that the man was running in his steel jacket.
"God's curse on him!" thought Pedro, whose breath grew shorter.
Up. Up. Jackboots hung on, stride for stride. If only someone did not blunder down in the opposite direction!
At last, with lungs at the bursting point, Pedro saw ahead of him the disused steps which had once served for manning the walls. His legs felt like butter, his mouth like leather. He had to make those steps. If he could once reach the top of the wall—
Tripping over a stone, he pitched full length to the ground.
Convulsively he was up at once—up just in time to meet Jackboots with his shoulder and gain room for defense. The two swords gleamed and clashed in the same moment. Mindful of the flight of steps several yards behind him, Pedro drew back foot by foot. The man followed; and, as his mind cleared, de Vargas recognized in the moonlight the features of Sebastian Reyes, whom he had talked with at the door of the Inquisitor.
"Ha! Reyes!" he panted. "Hold back, for God's love! I thought you were a friend."
"Friend be damned!" gasped the other, thrusting. "I serve the Holy Office. Give yourself over."
Pedro realized that he had perhaps a minute in which to dispose of the fellow and gain the wall before the rest of the posse came up. He retreated step by step, struggling to catch his breath, feeling the ground behind him with his heels, p
arrying blow after blow, with now and then a thrust of his own to keep Reyes back. The man's helmet and
cuirass left only his face and arms unprotected. Shouts and the sound of running grew nearer.
In point of exhaustion, the two opponents were even; but in the science of fence, Pedro had the advantage. Not for nothing had Francisco de Vargas drilled him in every trick of combat. Alone with Sebastian Reyes, he would have had no trouble; it was cavalier against ranker. The problem, however, was one of time.
"Socorro!" the man shouted, and an approaching yell answered.
Where were the steps? Pedro groped desperately for them with his heels.
At last!
But time was gone. Around the curve of the path appeared two hulking figures, then three. Pedro hitched himself a foot up; Reyes followed, cutting at his legs; one of the new arrivals struck at him from the open side of the steps; he was vaguely conscious that another was attempting to clamber to a level above and thus take him in the rear.
Putting everything he had into one last effort, de Vargas whipped a ringing cut to Reyes's steel cap, stopped him for an instant, then backed this up with a kick that landed full force on the man's chest. Reyes came down on his hams; and at the same moment Pedro, turning, fled upward, pausing only to thrust at the face of the soldier who had gained a kneehold on the edge of the steps. The fellow toppled back. A second later Pedro reached the summit of the wall, sheathed his sword, straddled the battlement, and lowered himself to arm's length on the other side.
Footholds were here that he knew of, but he had no time for them now. Letting go, he dropped twelve feet, landed on the slope, lost his footing, and rolled several yards until stopped by a clump of underbrush.
Oaths rained from the top of the wall.
He paused a moment to shout, "Buenas noches!" before plunging on downhill.
XV
Outstretched on the straw which filled the shallow bedstead in her garret room, Catana Perez found it hard to sleep. This was unusual with her; as a rule, she dropped off catlike in half a minute. Perhaps the heat of the cubbyhole, which had baked all day under the roof of
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the inn, or the moonlight streaming through the sashless window kept her awake. But for whatever cause, the routine of the evening—a blur of faces, jokes, oaths, wine cups, horseplay, and guitar music—drifted dully through her mind.
It was unusual, too, that she felt depressed. She had danced well and had collected almost half a peso in odd coins. The picture of herself mingled in the drift of the other pictures—herself in obscure conflict with Hernan Soler, who danced opposite her, his hawk face dark with desire, his narrow eyes fixed on her.
The conflict between them was several months old. He wanted her, demanded her. He was handsome enough, dressed gaudily, lived high. That he and his men held the mountains between Jaen and Granada, cut throats and purses, and would probably end on the gibbet, did not trouble her. So far as that went, she liked courage and dash. But she hated Soler and had no illusions about him. She knew him for a brute under his perfume and velvet.
Yet all men were brutes, she reflected—only of different kinds: some mean and niggardly, some merely savage. She liked the latter best. All men were brutes, all whom she knew. Except one.
Pedro de Vargas, the unobtainable, the never-to-be-forgotten!
She clenched her hands in a sudden paroxysm, then pressed her face against her naked arm as if to bind back the hot tears. There was only one thing she wanted, after all, one thing that made life worth living; and that was as remote from her as the cold moon. Then what did anything else matter—Soler or another? God in heaven, how it hurt under her breast, this heat of love, this ache of love!
Below in the courtyard of the inn, Lubo, the watchdog, burst into a fury of barking that stopped suddenly; but she did not heed it. The slow drift across her mind went on. Bearded faces, wine-sour breaths, leering eyes, gross caresses, and herself in the reek of it, posturing and pirouetting, showing off her body to the twang of a guitar. Tomorrow night and tomorrow after that and tomorrow again; or, if she mated with Soler, the same thing in another place until she got old and undesirable. Yet ail the while, a part of her, the essence of her, unseen and unsuspected, would be escaping behind Pedro de Vargas on Campea-dor.
She tried now to conjure up the various times she had seen him. Staring at the ceiling, she gradually relaxed and her eyes closed.
Then, at a footfall outside her door, she was wide awake, practical, and on guard. A footfall meant usually one thing; but there was a stout bar across the door, she had her knife and feared no man.
A low knock sounded; the latch rattled. She got up and slipped on her shift.
"Who's there?"
"Sancho Lopez. Let me in."
"Why?" she answered, alert to the ways of men.
"Hell!" returned the mutter. "Open up; I've something to tell you."
Reassured, but still on guard, Catana drew back the bar, and Lopez entered. The first glimpse of his dark, preoccupied face set her fears at rest. He stood a moment, pinching his chin, the bristles on his face making a rasping sound against his fingers.
"It's young Pedro de Vargas," he said.
She repeated the name soundlessly.
"He's here. Something with the Holy Office. His family's in the Castle. Almost taken himself—had to fight his way out. Wants to make the sierra. I've put him in the hayloft of the stable till morning. He's badly tuckered."
She stared at Lopez, still clutching her shift together at the throat, her eyes black pools of excitement.
"Give him some wine and victuals," the innkeeper went on. "I don't want to mix in this. First thing in the morning, see that he leaves. Hernan Soler's his best bet. But he can't stay here."
Instantly she flared up. "Are you afraid, Sancho Lopez? I didn't think you were a coward."
"Anda!'' he snapped, though keeping his voice down. "D'you think I'm a fool? I'd do what I could for young de Vargas, but I won't be ruined or burned for him. No Santa Gasa for me! Take some rags along. He's bleeding."
"Hurt?"
"A scratch on the leg—nothing bad. And now I'm washing my hands, d'you see? It's your business, if you want to take the risk."
She had already picked up her skirt. "Take the risk!" she echoed, dropping the garment over her head.
"Yes. If you're caught helping him, it's the garrucha for you, and maybe the stake. Remember, I don't know anything. What you do with your galdn doesn't concern me."
Galdn! Lover! The word made her blood simmer. Pedro de Vargas, her galdn! She put on her bodice, hooking it quickly, and coiled up the dark rope of her hair.
"Don't worry, Sancho Lopez."
Barefooted, so as not to make a sound, she stole out, threaded the dormitory of snoring guests who occupied the upstairs of the inn, and
clambered down the ladder to the main room. It took only a minute to fill a basket with food and to slip out through a side door into the courtyard.
''ChitoUj Luhocito!" she cautioned the watchdog, who followed her to the stable.
Inside the black, smelly place, dense with the sleep of beasts and of several mule boys who had a shakedown there, she made her way carefully toward the ladder to the spare hayloft. It was a space partitioned off from the main supply of fodder, and was the only corner of the stable that offered concealment. Climbing the ladder, she rapped gently at the trap door over her head.
"It's Catana," she whispered.
The dim rays of a lantern seemed almost bright as the trap rose and she clambered up into the loft. She said, "Hush!" and laid a finger on her lips, waiting until Pedro had again lowered the door into place.
Her heart quailed at the change in him. His usually curly hair, now matted with dust and sweat, clung in sharp points to his forehead; his face was dead white and showed hollows at the cheeks; his eyes seemed unnaturally large. He had drawn off one of his boots and laid bare a gash on the shin, where a sword had cut through during his fight o
n the steps. It was not much of a wound, but it had drenched his ankle and foot with blood.
"My poor seiior!" she exclaimed softly. "What the devil have they done to you!"
His lips relaxed. "Not too much. Not yet. By God, you're an angel, Catana! Have you got some wine in that basket?"
He sank back on a mound of hay, while she poured him out a cup and set the basket in front of him. Then, as he told her between mouth-fuls what had happened, she sponged off the wounded leg with wine and skillfully bound it up with a strip of clean linen. Sympathetic oaths in a low voice punctuated his story. When she had finished bandaging, she sat with his foot still in her lap, one arm braced on either side, her angular face intent and her mouth hooked down.
It seemed so natural for her to tend him, to sit like this sharing his ill chance, that it did not occur to either of them how strangely natural it was.
"And your fine new doublet!" she lamented, when he told her of his drop from the wall. "The lovely breeches! Had you been to a jestin this evening?"
He had put on his holiday clothes for the rendezvous with Luisa, itnd now glanced down at the ruin of them.
"No;' he evaded, "not exactly."
He did not enlarge on it; but she guessed, and jealousy twisted its knife in her, though her face showed nothing. She merely gazed beyond him at the slope of the hay.
"You are an angel," he repeated. "I felt cursed lonely on the road from Jaen. You've made a new man of me, Catana. I'll kiss you for it."
She shrugged her shoulders. "Be sensible, sefior. It's no time for kisses. Who do you think accused you to the Santa Casa? De Silva?"
The suggestion startled him. He had not thought of de Silva. Now he remembered the quarrel at the pavilion, the man's veiled threats, the fact that he was a familiar of the Inquisition. It was possible, but unlikely. No cavalier would stoop to a thing like that. Even the knife of a hired bully would have been cleaner. He fell silent, turning the possibility in his mind.
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