In everything they did that night luck favoured them. On emerging from the chimney on to the roof of the castle, they were rejoiced to find a tree growing so near to one of the walls that they had little difficulty in gripping hold of one of its branches and so descending in safety to the ground. The guards apparently were asleep, at least none were to be seen anywhere, and so, feeling their way cautiously in and out a thick growth of trees and bushes, they soon got altogether clear of the premises, and found themselves once again free, but in a part of the country with which they were totally unacquainted. Two hours tramping along a tortuous, hilly high road, or to give it a more appropriate name, track, for it was nothing more, at last brought them to a wayside inn where, in spite of the advanced hour—for it was between one and two o’clock in the morning—they determined to risk inquiry for a night’s shelter. I say “risk” because there was a strong spirit of partisanship abroad, and it was quite as likely as not that the inn people were adherents of the Queen.
Ralph knocked repeatedly, and the door was at length opened by a young girl who, holding a candlestick in one hand, sleepily rubbed her eyes with the other and, in rather petulant tones, asked what the gentlemen meant by coming to the house at such an unearthly hour and waking everyone up. Ralph and O’Flanagan were so struck by her appearance that for some seconds they could only stand gaping at her, deprived of all power of speech. Such a vision of loveliness neither of them had seen for many a long day, and both were more than ordinarily susceptible where the fair sex was concerned. Dark, like most of the girls are in Spain, she was not swarthy, but had, on the other hand, a most singularly fair complexion, devoid of that tendency to hairiness which is apparent in so many of the women of that country. Her features were, perhaps, a trifle too bold, but in strict proportion, and her eyes a wee bit hard, though the shape and colour of them—by candlelight an almost purplish grey—were singularly beautiful. She had very white teeth, too, though there was a something about her mouth, in the setting of the lips when they were closed for instance, and in the general expression, that puzzled Ralph, and which was destined to return to his mind many times afterwards.
Ralph noticed, too, that her hands were not those of a peasant class, of a class that has to do much rough and hard work, but that they were white and well-kept, the fingers tapering and the nails long and almond shaped. She wore several rings and bracelets, and seemed altogether different from the type of girl one would have expected to find in such a very unpretentious kind of building, situated, too, in such a very remote spot.
Ralph was not quite as impulsive as his friend, and although, as I have said, very susceptible, was not so far led away by his feelings as to be altogether incapable of observation.
His first impressions of the girl were that, although she was extraordinarily pretty, there was something—apart even from her mouth—that he could not fathom, and which caused him a vague uneasiness; he noticed it particularly when her glance wandered to their travel-stained uniforms, and momentarily alighted on O’Flanagan’s solitary ring, which contained a ruby and was a kind of family mascot, akin to the famous cathach of Count Daniel O’Donnell of Tirconnell; and she muttered something which Ralph fancied had reference to the word “Carlists,” and then, as if conscious he was watching her, she raised her eyes quickly and, in tones of sleepy indifference this time, asked what the gentlemen wanted. Ralph immediately replied that they required a bed with breakfast, not too early, and, perhaps, later on—luncheon. He added that if the inn was full they wouldn’t in the least mind sleeping in a barn or stable.
“All we want,” he said, “is to lie down somewhere with a roof over our heads, for we are terribly tired.”
At the mention of a stable the girl smiled, saying she could offer them something rather better than that; and, bidding both follow her upstairs, with as little noise as possible, she conducted them to a large room with a very low ceiling, and, having deposited the candlestick on a chest of drawers, she wished them good night and noiselessly withdrew.
“Rather better than our late quarters in the prison,” Ralph exclaimed, taking a survey of the apartment, “but a wee bit gloomy.”
“Nonsense!” O’Flanagan retorted. “The only gloomy things here are your own thoughts. I want to stay here always, for I never saw a prettier girl or a cosier-looking bed.”
He began to undress as he spoke, and in a few minutes both young men were stretched out at full length fast asleep.
About two hours later Ralph awoke with a violent start to hear distinct sounds of footsteps tiptoeing their way softly along the passage outside towards their room door. In an instant all his faculties were on the alert, and he sat up in bed and listened. Then something stirred in the corner by the window, and, glancing in that direction, he saw to his astonishment the figure of a tall slim girl, in a long, loose, flowing gown of some dark material, with a very pale face, beautifully chiselled, though by no means strictly classical features, and masses of shining golden hair that fell in rippling confusion on to her neck and shoulders. The idea that she was the Banshee instantly occurred to him. From his father’s description of her, for his father had often spoken to him about her, she and the beautiful woman, whom he was now looking at, were certainly very much alike; besides, as the Banshee, when his father saw her, was crying, and this woman was crying—crying most bitterly, her whole body swaying to and fro as if racked with the most poignant sorrow—he could not help thinking that the identity between them was established, and that they were, in fact, one and the same person.
As he was still gazing at her with the most profound pity and admiration, his attention was suddenly directed, by an odd scratching sound, to the window, where he saw, pressed against the glass, and looking straight in at him, a face which in every detail presented the most startling contrast to that upon which his eyes had, but a second ago, been feasting. It was so evil that he felt sure it could only emanate from the lowest Inferno, and it leered at him with such appalling malignancy that, brave man as he had proved himself on the field of battle, he now completely lost his nerve, and would have called out, had not both figures suddenly vanished, their disappearance being immediately followed by the most agonising, heart-rending screams, intermingled with loud laughter and diabolical chuckling, which, for the moment, completely paralysed him. The screams continued for some seconds, during which time every atom of blood in Ralph’s veins seemed to freeze, and then there was silence—deep and sepulchral silence. Afraid to be any longer in the dark, Ralph jumped out of bed and lit the candle, and, as he did so, he distinctly heard footsteps move hurriedly away from the door and go stealthily tiptoeing down the passage.
As may be imagined, he did not sleep again for some time, not, indeed, until daylight, when he gradually fell into a doze, from which he was eventually aroused by loud thumps on the door, and the voice of the pretty inn maiden announcing that it was time to get up.
After breakfast he narrated his experience in the night to O’Flanagan, who, somewhat to his astonishment, did not laugh, but exclaimed quite seriously:
“Why, you have seen our Banshee. At least, the girl in green is our Banshee. I saw her before the death of a cousin of mine, and she appeared to my mother the night before my father died. I don’t know what the other apparition could have been, unless it was what my father used to term the ‘hateful Banshee,’ which he said was only supposed to appear before some very dreadful catastrophe, worse even than death, if anything could be worse.”
“You haven’t the monopoly of Banshees,” Ralph laughed. “We have one too, and I am positive the woman I saw—the beautiful woman I mean—was the O’Donnell Banshee. I would have you know that the Limerick O’Donnells, with whom I am connected, are quite as old a family as the O’Flanagans; they are, indeed, directly descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages.”
“So are we,” O’Flanagan answered hotly, then he burst out laughin
g. “Well, well,” he said, “fancy quarrelling about anything as immaterial as a Banshee. But, anyhow, if they were Banshees that you saw last night, they’re a bit out in their calculations. They should have come before that skirmish, not after it; unless it’s the death of some relative of one of us they’re prophesying. I hope it’s not my sister.”
“I don’t imagine it has anything to do with you,” Ralph replied. “They were both looking at me.”
He was about to say something further, when O’Flanagan, seeing the young girl come into the room to clear away the breakfast things, at once began talking to her; and as it was only too evident that he wanted the field to himself, for he was obviously head over ears in love, Ralph got up and announced his intention of taking a walk round the premises.
“Don’t go in the wood, Señor, whatever you do,” the girl observed, “for it is infested with brigands. They do not interfere with us because we were once good to one of their sick folk—and the Spaniard, brigand though he may be, never forgets a kindness—but they attack strangers, and you will be well advised to keep to the high road.”
“Which is the nearest town?” Ralph demanded.
“Trijello,” the girl answered, the same curious expression creeping into her eyes that had puzzled Ralph so much before, and which he found impossible to analyse. “It is about eight miles from here. Don Hervado, the Governor, is a Carlist, and was entertaining some Carlist soldiers there yesterday.”
“Good!” Ralph exclaimed. “I will walk there. Will you come with me, Dick, or will you wait here till I return. I don’t suppose I shall be back much before the evening.”
“Oh, don’t hurry,” O’Flanagan laughed, eyeing the girl rapturously, “I am perfectly happy here, and want a rest badly. Don’t, whatever you do, let on to anyone connected with headquarters where we are. Let them go on imagining, for a while, we are dead.”
“The Señors have been in a battle, yes?” the girl interrupted, shyly.
“A battle,” O’Flanagan laughed, “not half one. Why, we were taken prisoners and only escaped hanging through my unparalleled wits and perseverance. However, I don’t in the least bemoan the perils and hardships we have undergone, for, had events turned out otherwise, we should never have had the joy of seeing you, Señora,” and catching hold of her hand, before she could prevent him, he pressed it fervently to his lips, smothering it with kisses.
Thinking it was high time to be off, Ralph now took his departure. A couple of hours’ walking brought him to Trijello, where, but for a lucky incident, he might have found himself landed in a quandary. As he was entering the outskirts of the town he met an old peasant, staggering under a sack of onions, and no sooner did the latter catch sight of his uniform than he at once called out:
“Señor, if you value your liberty, you won’t enter Trijello in that costume. The Governor is the sworn enemy of all Carlists, and has given strict orders that, anyone with leanings towards that party shall be put under arrest at once.”
“Are you sure?” Ralph exclaimed. “Why, I was told it was just the other way about, and that he was a strong adherent of our cause.”
“Whoever told you that, lied,” the old man responded, “for he had a nephew of mine shot only yesterday morning for saying in public he hoped that wretched weakling of a woman would soon be put off the throne and we should have someone who was fit to govern—meaning Don Carlos—in her place. Take my advice, Señor, and either change those clothes at once or give Trijello as wide a berth as possible.”
Ralph then asked him if there was any place near at hand where he could purchase a civilian suit, and, on being informed that there was a Jew’s shop within a few minutes’ walk, he thanked the old man most cordially for giving him so friendly a warning, and at once proceeded there.
To cut a long story short he bought the clothes and, thus disguised, went on into the town, and, with the object of picking up any information he could with regard to the enemy’s forces, he dined at the principal hotel, and listened attentively to the conversation that was taking place all around him. Later on in the day some Christino soldiers arrived, officers on the staff of one of the Royalist generals, and Ralph decided to remain in the hotel for the night and see if he could get hold of some really definite news that might be of value to his own headquarters. Learning that someone would be leaving the hotel shortly and passing by the inn where O’Flanagan was staying, he gave them a note to give to his friend, stating that he could not be back till the following day, perhaps about noon. He then took up his seat before the parlour fire, apparently absorbed in reading the latest bulletin from Madrid, but in reality keeping his ears well open for any conversation that might be worth transcribing in his pocket-book. Nor was he disappointed, for the Christino soldiers waxed very talkative over some of mine host’s best port, and disclosed many secrets concerning the movements of the Queen’s forces, that would have most certainly entailed a court martial, had it but come to the notice of their general.
That night, though the room he was given was quite bright and cheerful, and very different from the one he had occupied the night before, his mind was so full of grim apprehension that he found it quite impossible to sleep. He kept thinking of the vision he had seen—that lovely, fairy face of the girl with the golden hair, her adorable eyes, her heavenly, albeit very human mouth; she was so perfect, so angelic, so full of delicious sympathy and pity; so unlike any earthly woman he had ever met; and then that other face—those intensely evil, pale green eyes, that sinister mocking mouth, that dreadfully disordered mass of matted, tow-coloured hair. It was too hellish—too inconceivably foul and baneful to dare think about, and seized with a fit of shuddering, he thrust his head under the bedclothes, lest he should see it again appearing before him. What, he wondered, did they portend? Not some horrible happening to Dick. He had always understood that the one who neither sees nor hears the Banshee during its manifestations is the one that is doomed to die. And yet Dick was assuredly as safe in that inn as he was here—here, surrounded on all sides by his enemies. Once or twice he fancied he heard his name called, and so realistic was it, that, forgetful of his dread of seeing something satanic in the room, he at last sat up in bed and listened. All was still, however; there were no sounds at all; none whatever, saving the gentle whispering of the wind, as it swept softly past the window, and the far-away hooting of a night bird. Then he lay down again, and once more there seemed to come to him from somewhere very close at hand a voice that articulated very clearly and plaintively his name—Ralph, Ralph, Ralph!—three times in quick succession, and then ceased. Nor did he hear it again.
Tired and unrested, he got up early and, paying his bill, set off with long, rapid strides in the direction of the wayside inn. There was an air of delightful peace and tranquillity about the place when he arrived. All the sunbeams seemed to have congregated in just that one spot, and to have converted the walls and window-panes of the little old-fashioned building into sheets of burnished gold. Birds twittered merrily on the tree-tops and under the eaves of the roof, and the most delicious smell of honeysuckle and roses permeated the whole atmosphere.
Ralph was enchanted, and all his grim forebodings of the night before were instantly dissipated. The abode was truly named “The Travellers’ Rest”; it might even have been styled “The Travellers’ Paradise,” for all seemed so calm and serene—so truly heavenly. He rapped at the door, and, after some moments, rapped again. He then heard footsteps, which somehow seemed strangely familiar, cautiously come along the stone passage and pause at the other side of the door, as if their owner were in doubt whether to open it or not.
Again he rapped, and this time the door was opened, and the young girl appeared. She looked rather pale, but was very much sprucer and smarter than she had been when Ralph last saw her. She wore a very bewitching kind of gipsy frock of red velvet—the skirt very short and the bodice adorned with mas
ses of shining silver coins, whilst her feet were clad in very smart, dainty shoes, also red, with big silver buckles.
“Your friend’s gone,” she said. “He seemed very upset at your not turning up last night, and went away directly after breakfast.”
“But didn’t he get my note?” Ralph exclaimed, “and didn’t he leave any message?”
“No, Señor,” the girl replied. “No note came for him, but he said he would try and call in here again to-morrow morning, to see if you had arrived.”
“And he didn’t say where he had gone?”
“No.”
Ralph eyed her quizzically. She certainly was wonderfully pretty, and, marvellous to relate, did not smell of garlic. Yes, he would stay, and try and come under the fascination of her beauty as Dick had done. And yet, why had Dick gone off in such a hurry? What had this starry-eyed creature done to offend him? Ralph knew O’Flanagan was at times apt to be over-impulsive and hasty in his love-makings. Had he got on a bit too rapidly? Spanish girls are very easily upset, and perhaps this one had a lover in the background. Perhaps she was married. That seemed to him the most feasible explanation for Dick’s absence. To be offended at his not turning up last night was all nonsense. Ralph knew his friend far too well for that. Anyhow, he decided to stay, and the girl offered him the room he and Dick had previously occupied. Only, she explained, he must not go in it till later on in the day, as it was going to be cleaned.
After luncheon, which he sat down to alone, as the girl, despite his pressing invitation, refused to partake of the meal with him, on the plea that she had many things to attend to, he went a little way up the hillside at the back of the premises, and enjoyed a quiet siesta under the shadow of the trees. Indeed, he slept so long that the twilight had well set in before he awoke and once again made tracks for the inn.
The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack Page 116
