It was Carmona’s voice, and I knew instantly that he must have borrowed this dress from some friend in the cathedral—perhaps a member of the _cofradìa_ to which he himself belonged—so that he could search for me and Monica, without being seen by us.
Thrusting the girl behind me, yet keeping her close, I hurled him away, but he sprang at me again, and this time something glittered in his right hand. I fought with him for it, and pulled a slim length of steel up through his closed fingers, so that the sharp dagger-blade must have cut him to the bone. He gave a cry, and relaxed his grasp; but though he was disabled for the instant a dozen men in the crowd, which swirled round us now, caught and held me fast. Monica was wrenched from me; the dagger had fallen to the ground (but not before I had seen it was of Toledo make); the figure in the blue _capucha_ was swept out of my sight, and I was fighting like a madman in a strait-jacket for freedom.
XXXII
ON THE ROAD TO CADIZ
It was a mouse who gnawed a hole in the net that entangled the lion.
Now, I am no lion in importance, nor was Colonel O’Donnel’s messenger of as little significance as a mouse; yet he was the last creature to whom I would have looked for succour in a moment of stress. Nevertheless to him I owed my rescue.
“A mistake, a mistake,” he chirped, jumping about, bird-like, just outside the circle of struggling men. “I am a verger here; this gentleman was with me. He did nothing. He is a most respectable and twice wealthy person, a tourist whom I guide. He is innocent—no anarchist, no free-thinker. That other—that pretended brother—has made a practical joke. See, he has run away to escape consequences. There is nothing against this noble señor; you have it on the word of a verger.”
Because it was bewilderingly dark, and they might have got the wrong man; because, too, the verger was probably right, and it had been a joke played upon them by a person who had now disappeared, the twelve or fifteen men who surrounded me fell back shamefacedly, glad on second thoughts to melt away before they could be identified and reproached for disturbing the public peace, and spoiling the music to which their King listened.
I was free, but I would not leave the cathedral yet, for my hope was to find Monica again. I wandered in every direction, while the verger went off to bring Dick and the O’Donnels to meet me in the Orange Court.
Pilar’s delight in the first part of my story was dashed by the sequel. Of course, she said, it must come right in the end, since Monica and I understood each other at last. But just for the moment everything seemed difficult. The Duke was sure now that I was Casa Triana, and not Cristóbal O’Donnel. He would almost certainly make all the trouble he could, and a man of his influence could make a good deal. As his attempt to stick a dagger into me—by way of a quick solution—had been covered by the _capucha_ of a _cofradìa_, I could not take revenge by laying a counter accusation. I might say I had recognized his voice, and that I thought I had recognized the dagger bought in Toledo; but I could prove nothing, and the Duke would score.
Still, as the Cherub remarked consolingly, he could not do much worse than force me out of Spain. Neither I, nor anyone else, had ever said in so many words that I was Cristóbal O’Donnel. If people had taken my identity for granted because of a few round-about hints, and because for a joke I had borrowed a friend’s uniform for a day or two, nothing very serious could be made out of that after all; and as Cristóbal really was on leave, he need not be involved. He was a good officer, whose services were valued, and I was not to worry lest harm should come upon him. I need think only of Monica and of myself. Had I formed any idea of what to do next?
“I must get Monica out of Carmona’s house,” I said.
“You’ll have to lie in wait and snatch her from under their noses next time they show them,” suggested Dick; “unless—”
“Unless?”
“Carmona keeps his indoors until he’s arranged to have yours politely deported.”
“I can’t be got rid of in an hour.”
“You could to-morrow.”
“I’m afraid you can,” sighed the Cherub, “and that, though I shall do my best, I may be powerless to help you.”
“What if it were known that he saved the King yesterday?” Pilar asked her father.
“The King is going away to-morrow. You know, he’s off to England in a few days. Besides, the incident to-day will be hushed up. The King will know, of course, and a few others; but it will be kept out of the papers,—anyhow, until they’ve got their hands on both the men concerned.”
“I’ve still got to-night,” I said, “and it’s not eleven yet. I hoped that in the confusion Monica had given her mother and Carmona the slip, and that if I waited here I might find her again. I thought she might try to get back to the chapel where we had our talk, trusting that I’d look for her there. But she didn’t come, and I searched everywhere in vain before I tried watching the crowd pass through the Court of Oranges. Now, I’m certain that Carmona or Lady Vale-Avon must have pounced upon her while I was surrounded, and forced her away. No doubt they’re at home long ago. Why shouldn’t I appeal to the English consul, and say that the Duke of Carmona’s detaining an English girl in his house against her will?”
“No use,” said the Cherub. “She’s under age, and she’s with her mother, who’s visiting the Duchess.”
“Then I’ll go to Carmona’s door and make such a row that they’ll be obliged to let me in.”
“You’d get into a police cell instead. A man’s house is his castle, especially when it’s a palace and he’s a Duke.”
I was silenced. I knew the Cherub was right; but it seemed monstrous that in this twentieth century such tyranny should divide a girl from her lover.
When I had thought for a moment I said, “Anyhow, I shall go to the house and try to bribe a servant. Once in, I’d not come out without Monica. I’ve done two satisfactory things to-day by bribery and corruption, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t bring it off the third time.”
“The Duke’s servants have been in the employ of the family for years, and their fathers and grandfathers before them. No money would bribe them to deceive their master and mistress,” said the Cherub.
“I shouldn’t have thought either the Duke or his mother capable of inspiring such devotion.”
“It isn’t devotion—it’s fear. To an unfaithful servant in that house—well, almost anything might happen.”
“Have you any advice to give me, then?” I asked, in despair.
The Cherub shook his head. “The prudent thing would be to go away to-night, and trust Lady Monica’s loyalty. She can’t be forced into marrying the Duke, you know; and if she breaks the engagement he’ll have to let her alone, for dignity’s sake.”
“That might be prudent; but of course I won’t do it.”
“Of course you won’t,” returned the Cherub, as if it went without saying.
“Very well, then; matters are desperate, and desperate remedies must be tried; things can’t be worse than they are. I shall hang about Carmona’s house early in the morning, and when the first person comes out I’ll go in. If I don’t come out, you will know what’s become of me; and I don’t suppose in these days even a Duke can kill a man without getting into trouble?”
“He would merely have you arrested as a housebreaker,” said the Cherub.
“Well, I should have seen Monica first, and perhaps have got her on the right side of the door.”
“We’ll have a go at the business together,” said Dick. “It would be more sociable.”
“All right, thank you,” said I. “Then something’s settled; and these best of friends can go home and sleep.”
“Sleep!” echoed Pilar scornfully. “Oh, if I were a man, and could do _something_ to punish the Duke!”
“I wish you could set your bull at him,” said Dick. “Only, now I think of it, it’s _his_ bull still.”
Try as we might, it was impossible to persuade either Colonel O’Donnel or Pilar that they ought to return quietly to bed, if not to sleep. No, they would do nothing of the kind. Besides, no properly disposed person within ten miles of Seville would lie in bed that night. Processions would go on till early morning. Many people would watch them, or spend the hours till early mass in prayer in the cathedral, which would be open all night. Why should not the O’Donnel family do as others did?
There was no answer to this; and it was finally arranged that, if they wished to rest at all, it should be at the hotel in the Plaza de San Fernando, where we had dined. That was to be the rendezvous; and the Cherub would engage the verger we knew to watch the Duke’s house in the morning, bringing news of our fate to the hotel—if we did not bring it ourselves.
Never—if I live beyond the allotted threescore years and ten—shall I forget that strange night of Holy Thursday in Seville.
Dick and I wandered through the streets, and in the Plaza de la Constitución, where electric lamps and moonlight mingled bleakly, while never-ending _cofradìas_ passed.
A sky of violet was like a veil of silky gauze, and as the moon slid down the steeps of heaven the vast dome paled. One by one the stars went out like spent matches; dawn was on its way. Electric lights flared and died, leaving a pearly dusk more mysterious than any twilight which falls with night.