"Talk of miracles!" he observed to Doiia Maria. "My dear, who would have imagined some hours ago that you and I would be free of that hell-hole to try our luck again in the open! A manifest act of God and the saints—which shows that not the devil himself can keep us from Italy."
His wife, who had a stitch in her side from the unaccustomed move-."ment of the horse, gave a breathless answer.
"This Senor Garcia," continued her husband, "may be who he will, but he has served Pedro and us as a trusty friend, and for my own part I shall ever remain in his debt. Relax, my love, breathe naturally and go Vvith the horse. You will soon get back to the swing of it. He spoke to
"9
me of Hernan Soler, the robber, by whose favor somehow we have these horses, and I doubt not they are birds of a feather. But after the Judases and scoundrels we saw last night, I do not cavil at an honest ruffian. By the Virgin, no! And here is something to cheer you which Pedro whispered to me as we left the Castle."
"My lord," gasped Doiia Maria, "can we not slacken a little? I'm nearly spent."
"No, we cannot," said the other flatly; "we must win to the high sierra by daybreak. Do as I tell you and breathe deep. But listen. The cursed dog, de Silva, is dead. Pedro sheathed his sword in him when he came to taunt our son in the prison. By the Cross, I feel ten years younger for it!"
Dofia Maria was a good woman, but the joy of the news made her forget the pain in her side.
"Maraviglioso!'' she exclaimed. "Well done!"
Don Francisco threw back his head. "Well done indeed! And, wife, our Pedro is a boy no longer. From henceforth he's a man. He can use my war cry and carry my pennon."
Uphill though it was, they rode hard—too hard, for about a half-mile north of the Rosario, Doiia Maria's horse cast a shoe and fell to limping. Without drawing rein, Don Francisco summoned Manuel Perez to come up.
"Is another mount to be had?" he asked. "Or must we make the best of this? He'll be apt to go down with my lady."
"Horses enough, sir," answered Perez, explaining that they were to meet Hernan Soler with some others of his band at the Rosario. The chief himself would escort them through the sierra.
"Then it's of no moment," said de Vargas. "But keep a tight feel of the jade's mouth, Maria, lest he stumble. Adelante!" And with a laugh, "Little I thought the other night when I was flogging Pedro on account of that damned tavern that I would soon be risking my neck in a hurry to get there!"
Thus far no sound of pursuit had reached them, but even Don Francisco felt relief when he saw a group of horsemen, black in the moonlight, waiting in front of the inn.
Their leader rode forward. He was a loose-limbed, gaunt man in complete armor, and he managed his powerful horse gracefully. A gaudy baldric, much too bejeweled, crossed his cuirass and glittered in the rays of the moon. He had a long face and a toothy smile. What stripe he was showed at once in the oiliness of his manner.
"Gracious sir and lady," he bowed, "Your Worships' servant, Hernan
Soler. I never expected the honor of devoting myself to the service of so renowned a captain, of so noble a seiiora."
He was clearly showing ofT—perhaps for the benefit of the tall girl who stood in the shadow of the archway. Don Francisco returned his compliments adequately, if not effusively; but when Soler launched upon another series of them, he interrupted him.
"I thank you from my heart, cahallero, but we are like to be soon hard-pressed. Dofia Maria needs a fresh mount. If you have an odd piece or so of armor for my son and me, they may be of use before dawn."
"At your command," waved Soler.
The shifting of Dofia Maria's sidesaddle to another horse and the adjustment of armor, which was gladly supplied by several of the men to piece out a sketchy equipment for Don Francisco, Pedro, and Garcia, took a few minutes. During the bustle, when Pedro had slipped on a cuirass and was reaching around for the side straps, a familiar, husky voice at his shoulder remarked: —
"I'll buckle it for you, sefior." In the hurry, he had not seen Catana, but when he tried to turn, she added, "No, wait, you made me lose the strap."
Turning his head, he could feel her hair against his cheek.
He whispered, "Queridaj how can I thank you for everything, for all you've done!"
"There!" She tightened the buckle. Then beneath her breath, "Stand still. Don't let on we're talking. Promise me something."
"Yes, but what do I care who listens! I'd tell anyone what I owe you. Why not let on?"
"Because I'm Soler's girl now. He might be jealous. I want him to get you across the mountains."
Pedro stififened. "Catana? You didn't—you didn't get this help from Soler by—"
"Of course not! Be still!" She rebuckled one of the straps. "Didn't I tell you the other night about Hernan and me? Vaya, I love him. Promise me something."
"Anything. What is it?"
"That you'll think of me wherever you are."
"No need to ask that."
"No, I mean—" She stood a moment fingering the buckle. "We may not see each other again. You'll be a famous captain—I know it, Pedro de Vargas—when I'm hanged for a thief's trull in Jaen. But I wish— If you'll think of me a moment only, every day at the hour of Angelus? Will you?"
"At the Angelus. I swear it."
"And I'll think of you."
Soler walked up.
"That's a tight fit for a big chest," she added, clapping the breastplate with her palm, "and hard to buckle. Well, hombreSj will you ride?"
Soler kissed her full on the mouth—the kiss of possession. "Aye, querida mia. Meet me in a day or so at the place you know of. And adios!"
Pedro bowed as if she had been a great lady. "God be with you, Catana!"
"And with you," she said, "always."
The little troop, grown now to some fourteen horse, cantered off. She stood in the middle of the empty road, watching it, watching one figure in the rear by the side of Garcia. His steel cap sparkled in the moonlight. Had he already forgotten her? Would he look back once more? She clasped her hands.
"Maria gratia plena —''''
He turned and raised his arm.
''Adios, amado mio, amado mio!" she whispered.
When he had disappeared, she still looked at the turn of the road.
But suddenly a sound startled her. It came from the direction of Jaen —the distant racing of horses' hoofs.
XXd
If they could have had the start originally planned, the fugitives might have reached the Sierra de Lucena and taken refuge in the fastnesses of the Granada Mountains before their pursuers had been long on the road. As it was, they could not hope to reach the pass without a fight; and even if this were at first successful, it would be hard to shake off pursuit. For it would not do merely to gain the mountains; they must disappear long enough to find their way undetected to the coast— Almeria or Cartagena—and with luck secure passage for Italy. To be penned in the mountains would be fatal, as it would give the Inquisition time to cut off their escape by sea. After that, with a price on their heads and the province raised against them, their ultimate capture was inevitable.
Warned by a shout from Pedro, whose quick ears had picked up the
sound of approaching, though still distant, horsemen, Don Francisco dropped back for conference. Like a veteran captain, he had his plans ready for the event and now communicated them to Pedro, Garciaj and Soler.
"Look you. I remember a trail to the right not more than five furlongs ahead. We used it in the Moorish wars. It's impossible for a woman, but fair enough for men. Am I wrong, senor?"
"No," agreed Soler, "but it's better for goats. It leads west to Priego and hits the road to Puente Genii."
Don Francisco nodded. "The same. Pedro, your mother cannot take that path. She must keep to this road, and I must guard her. Half the men should ride with us. We'll press on as fast as may be. You with the others might wait for the dogs here. Hold them in play, but fall back. Then take the trail to the west.
My guess is they'll follow you, thinking that all of us have gone that way. I grieve to propose this, for it means danger, and I would like my share of it, but Dofia Maria cannot be left alone."
It was clearly the only possible plan. Soler, rising in his stirrups, selected a handful of his best men to form the rear guard with Pedro. To his credit, he did not flinch from the post himself, but the value to the elder de Vargases of his personal escort as far as the sea was too great to be sacrificed. Garcia declared that, of course, he would stay with his friend.
Meanwhile, the little column had briefly halted.
"A word between us," said Don Francisco, beckoning Pedro to one side. "There's no use afflicting your mother with farewells. I'll tell her that you will join us beyond the pass. For myself, I know that whether we meet again on earth is God's affair. If we reach the sea, we cannot wait. You must find your own way to Italy. Whatever happens to us, your kinsman, Cardinal Strozzi, will protect you. And now bear yourself well. I'd give my life to be with you in this skirmish, but I cannot. Here they come. Shout 'Santiago y Vargas.' My blessing goes with you!"
Their hands met in a hard clasp to be long remembered. Then Don Francisco wheeled his horse and galloped up the road. The little group of men, Pedro, Garcia, and five others, waited. Below them the clatter of hoofs grew loud. The moon, slanting across the defile, lighted half of it.
For a first stand, the place was well-chosen. A projecting cliff, around which the road zigzagged, cast its shadow over the defenders, while anyone rounding it from below came fully into the moonlight. The sound of Don Francisco's party in front would throw the pursuers off their guard as to an ambush on the other side of the cliff. In addition, Pedro had the advantage that neither he nor any of the hard-faced rascals with him had anything to lose by fighting. Their lives were forfeit in any case, and most of them had memories of the prison and pillory, the hangman's whip or knife, the execution of friends and relatives, to avenge; whereas the horsemen from the Castle had no such coeent motives for risking their necks.
The noise of the riders came closer; a shout or two; then three ot them abreast swept around the cliff.
Far up the road Don Francisco heard the onset, and his heart yearned Avithin him. At that moment his common sense and his loyalty to Dona Maria underwent their hardest test.—"Santiago y Vargas! —The cry floated back above the clash of swords and trampling of horses. His lower Up crept out, he half reined up; but then, closmg his ears, he spurred doggedly ahead, while his wife breathed prayers to the saints.— "Santiago y Vargasl"—It was as if all his past life were calling to him calling him back. He groaned and struck the pommel of the saddle with his clenched fist, but rode on.
Though trained in the tilt yard, it was Pedro's first experience of an actual melee, and he Bamed with excitement. He would have given anything now for five minutes on Campeador, whose weight and spirit would have stemmed the tide more effectively than could his present sorry mount. But even so, he fared well enough. Two of the three troopers in front went down before the first unexpected charge, their bodies tangled between the horses' feet. Others closed in, jamming the road between the cliff and the opposite bank, hampered by the narrowness of the defile, a confusion and hubbub. Pedro cut and thrust, hardly knowing what he did. Perhaps his war cry accomplished more than his efforts. It was a famous shout known to all of the assailants, who gathered that Don Francisco himself confronted them. One horse, losing his footing, went down, and another piled on top. The road was temporarily blocked. The onrush wavered.
"Back!" roared Garcia. "Back, before they rally! Grasping Pedro's bridle rein, he wheeled him into flight up the road at as hot a pace as spurs could wring from the horses At the same instant, Soler's men drew off and joined them. They had covered two hundred yards before the pursuit was resumed. , , ,
"Here'" cried one of Soler's men three hundred yards further on. "To the right'" And leading down a low bank, he disappeared in a knot of pines. Pell-mell at first, they raced along the trail between the trees, then gradually slackened to a halt.
This was the critical point. Would the troopers turn from the main road after them? Or would they suspect the strategy and perhaps split their force? From what he could gather, Pedro reckoned them at fifty men. Twenty-five of these on the heels of Don Francisco would be enough.
But the chase was too hot; no one paused on the road. Shouts and then the thudding of many hoofs on the pine needles showed that the enemy had taken the bait. Pedro whooped to encourage them.
"Give them a glimpse of us," he said.
They had more than a glimpse. At that moment a man on a tall charger, riding well ahead of his fellows, burst from the trees and crashed into de Vargas's horse. Both animals went down in a flurry of lashing legs. Pinned for an instant and half-dazed, Pedro somehow gained his feet. Then consciousness blew into tatters: sensations, glimpses, blind spots. He was in the middle of a whirlpool, shunted here and there. He was flung against a riderless horse, but did not remember scrambling into the saddle. Something hit him on the head, glanced to his shoulder, but he did not feel the pain of it. Someone yelled, "Here's a sword," and thrust it into his hand. He spurred forward without knowing in what direction, shouting, slashing. The horse reared, bolted; branches whipped his face. He was out of the woods, oflf the trail, plunging down a dizzy hill, jumping rocks, gullies, fallen timber, hauling vainly against the bit. On, on. A rocky plain stretched before him, ghost-white under the moon. Distant peaks. The ground spun past. Then all at once his horse dropped; he plunged over its head and rolled a yard or more, his cuirass clashing against the stones.
After a while, breath and awareness crept back.
Sitting up, he found that he could move his limbs, though his left arm throbbed from a wound in the shoulder. Several paces off lay the dead horse. A gaping cut on the flank showed what had maddened him.
Unsteadily Pedro got to his feet, sheathed the sword which he had kept hold of by instinct, and looked about him. For the moment he had lost his sense of direction and could not decide where he was. But a sound in the distance brought him back to more urgent things. It came from the quarter out of which he had been riding. It was the click of horseshoes on loose stones. The pursuit was evidently still on.
Looking about for a hiding place, he could see none. The stony ground near him undulated far and wide without a break. Even if he could have hidden himself, the body of the horse outstretched and black against the moonlit ground was a telltale signal to anyone searching for him.
He stood gazing in the direction of the sound and at length caught sight of a dark figure jogging towards him across the glimmering expanse of the mesa. The rider was veering to the left and had apparently not seen him. What first struck Pedro was the man's size and topheaviness as compared with his horse, which looked like a pony carrying a mountain. Then, coming nearer, the stranger stopped all at once and let out a shattering bellow.
"Viva! Por Dios, que no es verdad!"
*'Garcia!"
The big man slipped off his horse, as if he could make more speed on his own feet, and came lumbering towards Pedro, pulling his nag by the bridle. His heavy arms closed around the other in a bear's hug; he kissed him on both cheeks.
"Never did I expect to see thee again," he boomed—"not this side of Satan! It was the devil of a thing to leave a friend like that and ride off to hell on your own account! What ailed you?"
Pedro explained about the horse.
"Never admit it," said Garcia. "Those bastards from the Castle will be talking about de Vargas's ride down that slope till their death day— and you tell me it was nothing but a runaway horse! That's how people get a reputation!" He broke off. "Hurt?"
Pedro was clasping his shoulder, which throbbed from Garcia's hug. "Only a cut. What happened to the others? You did some riding yourself to follow me."
Garcia shook his head. "No, I came after you with prudence and sanity. Even so, if I wasn't born to be hanged, it would have been my finish. I can't te
ll you what happened. It was everyone for himself, and everyone scattered. Soler's knaves ride well and they know the sierra, so God be with them! Besides, I drew out of it when you did, and followed to pick up the pieces."
"But the troopers—how did you shake them off?"
The other spat thoughtfully. "In such a scramble, anything can happen. Perhaps they took me for one of theirs; perhaps they didn't want to break their necks; perhaps they were busy with Soler's boys, or thought your father couldn't be far down the trail and chased after him. At any rate here we are."
Garcia looked almost as fagged as his horse, which stood behind him, head down and knees bent. Moving a trifle, he caught his breath sharply.
"You're wounded yourself!" exclaimed Pedro.
"Wounded is right! God made me for the sea, not the saddle. I've got blisters on my rump big as ducats. Wish they were ducats and in my pocket," he added.
Pedro felt a pang of conscience. "Cdspita! You've stripped yourself for us! The jailer; Soler; money to my father for the journey—"
"Not a word of it! Call it a loan. But loan or not, if I've paid back something on account to the reverend devil, de Lora, all would be well-spent." He stood a moment transfigured with hate. "You're lucky. You leave Jaen with a part of your debt canceled. Mine's to pay, and by God I'll pay it!"
Then, wrenching himself out of the mood, he said quietly, "But we're still in pickle and have to keep going. Let's chart our course. Do you know this neighborhood?"
Taking his direction from the moon and from the mountain peaks to the south, Pedro concluded that they were over toward Puente Genii. The distant summits marked the sierra back of Malaga. That city was the nearest seaport they could make.
Captain from Castile Page 16
