The boxes filled earlier than before, many of the ladies no longer in black, but wearing Paris hats and pale-tinted dresses, though to-morrow there would be black mantillas again, and red carnations. Pilar, Dick, and Colonel O’Donnel were in their places, and though the Duke’s box was still empty, I was sure I should not be disappointed to-day. “He’ll appear about the time the King does,” I was saying to myself, when suddenly there came a stir in the royal box. The mayor and town councillors walked in, looking important; four giant halberdiers of the royal guard took position, each in a corner of the box. Then rose a shout, “Viva el Rey!” and against the crimson velvet draperies the figure of the tall young King in white uniform stood out like a slender statue of marble.
He was accompanied by his sister, the Infanta, and her husband, three or four ladies, and a retinue of decorated officers; but for an instant I saw only the King, because—rebel as I was supposed to be—my hat waved as high and my cheers rang as loudly as any in the crowd.
I had not seen his face—that day at Biarritz long ago—when his automobile stopped for want of petrol. He had worn his motor-mask, and had not removed it, for he was incognito; but now, as he bowed in answer to the people’s greeting, the young face was noble under the silver helmet. His smile brought a deep dimple to either cheek, and a pleasant light to the brown eyes. I was proud of my King, and found myself wishing that I could serve him, though it seemed that that could never be; and with a sigh for the perversities of fate I looked away, only to receive a shock of surprise.
Among the ladies with the Infanta were the Duchess of Carmona, Lady Vale-Avon, and Monica. With the officers and friends of the King stood the Duke, his dark face radiating satisfaction, as if this were the crowning moment of his life.
Not only was Monica with the man as his fiancée, but she was dressed, in compliment to him, like a girl of Spain. She wore a mantilla such as the Infanta wore, and so bright was her hair, so fair her skin framed in the black flounce of lace, that she was almost as much stared at as the King. On her breast, pinning the folds of the mantilla, there was a glint of crimson; and looking closely, I made it out to be a large brooch of rubies, forming the famous “No. 8 Do,” the motto of Seville. Only the Duke could have given her this, I thought; and she had accepted it!
There was no more hope, then. It did not matter that her unexpected presence in the royal box would prevent Pilar from speaking, or giving her my letter. Still, I clung desperately to the one chance left; the cathedral and the Miserere.
Hardly were the royalties and their friends settled in the red-draped box when the next brotherhood marched out from Las Sierpes, and halted their first _paso_ before the King, that he might see it well. He was on his feet, his head bared and bowed; and while he stood veiled in rising incense, some emotional soul in the audience broke into a Moorish wail, the prayer song or _saeta_ of the people, improvising words which caught the popular fancy.
A murmur of approval ran through the crowd, which pressed close, in spite of the police; and as all eyes for the moment turned upon the King, or upon the white-haired peasant singer, a thing happened which caught my attention.
The velvet curtain which hid the bearers of the _paso_ resting before the royal box, parted very slightly at one side, as if someone were peering out; then a hand darted forth and received from a man in a black coat, who stood with his back half-turned to me, a faded bouquet of flowers, arranged Spanish fashion in a hard, stiff pyramid.
Quick as that darting hand a thought flashed through my brain. In a few seconds the _paso_ would be moving on; the bearers were bracing themselves for a new effort. That bouquet! if it should hold the threatened bomb? This was the moment for such an attempt at wrecking the royal box, for the King was a member of the next brotherhood that must pass; and soon he would be leaving his sister and friends to walk with it, perhaps not returning to his box that day.
The passing of light is no more swift than was the flight of these thoughts; and without waiting to calculate the cost to myself, thinking only of the King and of the girl I loved, I instantly thrust both hands between the curtains, following the flowers as they were passed in. I grasped the bouquet firmly round the stiff base of the pyramid, and pulled it out before the hidden man who had received it knew that it had not been withdrawn by his confederate. It was all over in a second, and I had the bouquet. Also I had identified the man who pushed it through the curtains of the _paso_, though which among the twenty or twenty-five concealed bearers had taken it from him I could not tell.
Whether my act had been wise or foolish, it was done, and the _paso_ had moved on, carrying the secret of one beating heart under the curtained platform.
Prying cautiously among the tightly banked flowers, my blood quickened as I touched something round and hard, a thing about the size of a large orange, fastened into the centre of the pyramid by a network of thin wire. Intuition had not played me a trick. There was death in this bunch of roses, death for many, perhaps. Though it was of first importance to get the bomb as far away as possible from the King and from Monica, and to render it harmless, I would not give up my pursuit of the man in the black coat, who was fighting his way through the crowd, only a few yards in front of me,—a square-set figure, in the holiday clothes of a respectable workman. I saw only his back now, every muscle tense in his desire to escape the vengeance on his track; but I had seen his face for an instant, and could identify it anywhere.
What if, in his desperation, he turned, and in the hope of saving himself accused me of the crime he would have committed? It but needed that to ruin me—after Barcelona, and this long journey to Seville, where the King was due. Would any explanation I might make be credited, when the bomb was in my hand?
I pushed the crowding thoughts out of my mind. There were other things to think of—the bomb itself, what to do with it; and the man to be followed.
Meanwhile I was moving on after that broad back of which I must not lose sight, and away from the neighbourhood of the royal box. I was in the lane of the procession, close in front of the long ranks of occupied chairs, and opposite the tribune. There were only two persons abreast in the moving line which carried me along, driven on by the police, but we were tightly packed, pressed against on one side by the knees of people in the chairs, on the other by the purple brotherhood preceding another _paso_. The situation seemed desperate, since to give an alarm would endanger the crowd as well as jeopardize my future; and a panic would be a calamity.
Suddenly the cry of a water-seller struck my ear sharply. “Agua!—clear as crystal and cold as mountain snow. Agua!”
He was just before me with his earthen vessel. “Sell me your jar,” I said. “No, I don’t want a glass of water. I want the jar—for a curiosity. Twenty pesetas for it.”
This offer saved questionings. The vessel with its contents was worth two pesetas to the vendor, perhaps, and, lest I should change my mind, its owner hastily handed over his jar and pocketed my silver. Even now I had to wait for an opening in the throng, till I had been pushed on as far as the lane leading from the square to the Plaza de San Fernando; and there, to my joy, I jostled against Ropes. Without a word of explanation, I said, “Follow that man in the cloth cap with the black coat and red tie. Get hold of him; take care he doesn’t knife or shoot you. Don’t let him go—and wait for me.”
This was all Ropes needed. “Right, sir,” said he, and forged after the black back, which in this freer space was gaining distance.
Unexpectedly relieved of my second task, carefully shielding the bouquet with the water-jar I worked my way into the lane, and struck the head of the earthen vessel against a stone coping.
The porous clay cracked like an egg-shell, the top coming off in one piece, with a few flying splinters; and I pressed the bouquet deep into the water.
This was the best I could do at the moment, though, if the bomb was made with picric acid, I had accomplished nothing. I could only hope; and pressing on I came up with Ropes, who had collared his man and jammed him against a wall.
Not a sound had the wretch uttered. He knew that, if he resisted, he would be instantly denounced and torn to pieces by a crowd not likely to wait for clear proof of such an accusation. Since he had failed, it was better to trust to the mercy of his captor and of the police than to the thousands wild with enthusiasm for the King. Fortunately for him, as for us, the crowd had something better to do than stop to watch what they took for some trifling private quarrel.
“He tried to knife me,” said Ropes; “but I stopped that. Knife’s in my pocket. What next, sir?”