THE REVOLUTIONIST.
The scar-faced banderillero was in the company of three other fellows
who looked decidedly villainous and desperate. He seemed to be talking
to them, but Frank discovered, in a moment, that every word was meant
for his ears.
“You need not tell me the Americans are ever brave!” came scornfully
from Gonzalez’s lips. “They are all cowards! It is a nation of cowards.”
“But remember how the young American rushed into the ring and slew the
bull,” said one of the others, who plainly spoke with the deliberate
purpose of giving the scar-faced rascal an opportunity to insult the
listening lad.
“Bah!” cried Gonzalez. “He did not know the danger. He saw us playing
with the bull, and he thought the creature harmless.”
“But he faced the bull’s charge, and he killed the animal with a single
stroke.”
“Which was fortunate for him, and it was all a mistake. He was so
frightened that he closed his eyes and struck. Why, he was white as a
ghost, and he trembled all over when the bull fell dead. It was with the
greatest difficulty that he kept on his feet. It is certain that he came
near fainting. Brave! Why, he is the biggest coward that ever lived! He
is a cur!”
Frank felt the hot blood flushing his cheeks, and yet he held himself in
check, knowing the fellow was seeking to draw him into a quarrel. To
resent the insult would be a play into Gonzalez’s hands.
One of the banderillero’s companions laughed harshly.
“You have a very poor opinion of Americans, señor,” he said: “but I
think you are right.”
“I know I am right,” Gonzalez asserted, more offensively than before.
“Now, if that brave American were here at this moment, and he should
hear me call him a coward and a cur—as I do!—he would not dare stand up
like a man and resent it.”
“I think you are mistaken, señor.”
The voice was smooth and musical. A bearded man, in a heavy cloak, who
had been sitting at a table close to Gonzalez’s elbow, was the speaker.
He had turned and uttered the words in a very cool and quiet manner.
That he was a Spaniard was evident by his pronunciation and appearance.
Gonzalez was astonished. He whirled quickly and glared at the stranger,
scowling blackly, while his companions allowed their hands to slip to
their bosoms in a sinister way.
The bearded stranger had a hat lopped over his eyes. He was smoking a
small cigar.
“I beg your pardon for breaking in, señor,” he said, suavely; “but I
heard you speaking slightingly of the Americans, and I could not refrain
from correcting what I believe is a mistaken impression. I believe the
Americans, in general, are as brave as our own people.”
Gonzalez showed his teeth.
“Indeed!” he exclaimed, fiercely. “Then I should advise you to go to
America and live among the brave Yankees. It will be much more agreeable
than for you to live in Spain, in case you continue to freely express
your admiration of the Americans. Americans are not admired in Spain.”
“They are misunderstood.”
“Bah! they are sneaks! They stole Cuba from us.”
“If they desired Cuba so much, Spain could not prevent.”
“What do I hear?” roared Gonzalez. “This is treason!”
“It is plain sense, señor. Cuba was misgoverned by Spain——”
“Treason!” roared Gonzalez, once more, and his companions echoed the
cry.
There was a commotion in the café. Men sprang up in their seats, their
eyes blazing. The stranger was quickly surrounded by an excited crowd.
“By Jove!” muttered Frank. “That fellow has placed himself in an awkward
position. I cannot understand this. Is it a part of the trick to get at
me?”
He was keenly on the alert, but Gonzalez and his companions seemed to
have forgotten the American lads. They were packed about the daring
stranger, whom they cursed in a way that told they longed to strangle
him. One of them demanded the stranger’s name, but this he declined to
give, rising to his feet and drawing his cloak about him. Then he
attempted to leave the café. A hand darted out and grasped the
stranger’s whiskers, and, in a twinkling, they were jerked from the
man’s face.
The beard was false!
A cry of satisfaction and triumph broke from the lips of the man who had
snatched the beard away.
“Esparto!” he shouted. “I knew it was he!”
The fierce crowd fell back a bit before the man who had so suddenly lost
his disguise.
“Esparto, the Valencian!” they exclaimed.
The stranger—now a stranger no longer—drew himself up proudly, his dark
eyes flashing defiance.
“Yes, señors, I am Esparto,” he admitted. “What would you have with me?”
In Spain the Valencians are known as very fierce and daring, being great
fighters. It is necessary to kill a Valencian to conquer him.
Gonzalez, the scar-faced banderillero, seemed astounded for the moment,
and then his face took on an expression of malignant satisfaction and
triumph.
“So the revolutionist has returned to Madrid!” he sneered. “Did he come
back to see Señorita Zuera? or did he come to arouse the people against
the government?”
Esparto regarded the fellow with a look of deep contempt.
“It is nothing to you why I returned,” he declared. “You have neither
the courage to become a revolutionist or to support the government.
Gonzalez, you are a cur.”
The man with the scar writhed, showing his fierce teeth. His hand was
thrust into his bosom, and the fingers closed around the haft of a very
keen knife.
“You shall regret your words, Señor Esparto!” he grated. “I will take
care that you do.”
“Take care that my knife does not split your cowardly heart, Señor
Gonzalez. Keep beyond my reach.”
“What in thunder is all the raow about, Frank?” asked Ephraim, who did
not understand what was being said.
“That fellow is in a bad scrape,” Merriwell swiftly answered. “He is a
revolutionist who is well known in Madrid, and he was here in disguise.
From what has passed, I should say he is none other than the lover of
Señorita Zuera.”
“Great gosh! And he has come back here to see her?”
“It is most likely.”
“Wal, he has put his foot in it!”
“It looks like it. He betrayed himself by daring to speak in favor of
Americans, and now he is in a bad scrape.”
Forgetting that they were in the least peril, the boys watched with the
greatest interest all that was passing.
By this time every man in the saloon knew that Esparto, the Valencian,
had come there in disguise, and that he had been unmasked. This
knowledge created unbounded excitement.
Not all the men in that place were the enemies of the revolutionist.
Some of them were inclined to be revolutionists themselves, but they did
not dare express themselves openly. For this reason Esparto’s enemies
could be heard, while his friends kept silent, and it seemed that he had
no friends.
Esparto’s eyes told that he held Gonzalez in the greatest contempt, but
his tongue spoke even plainer.
“How will you make me regret my words, señor?” he asked. “Not by meeting
me man to man, I will make oath. That you have not the courage to do.”
“You shall be delivered over to the officers. You will suffer as a
traitor.”
“I thought it would be in some such manner that a coward would seek
retaliation. I am no traitor to Spain, but I stand for her advantage and
advancement. Because I say all Americans are not cowards is no token
that I would not be among the first to fight for Spain if I believed
America had actually wronged my country.”
“Your country! Bah! You have no country! You are an outcast—an outlaw!”
“It is so,” confessed Esparto, with a touch of sadness. “In America
speech is free. In Spain it is different. Some things may be said; but
some other things may not be whispered. The one who says Spain has not
dealt justly and liberally with Cuba is branded as a traitor. The one
who advocated home rule in Cuba is said to be the enemy of Spain, and
his life is at stake. And yet our country was plunging deeper and deeper
into debt each day in order to sustain the great army that was fighting
to whip the insurgents in Cuba. The debt we may never pay, but who
thinks of that!
“Ah! do not think the people of Spain are all fools! No, no! They have
endured many things, and have not murmured. But all the time they are
learning a great lesson. They have seen the things which have been done
by the United States and by France, and they have thought what things
might be done here. France showed us the way. Wait a little. The scenes
of the French Commune may be repeated in Spain! The streets of Madrid
may run red with blood! Then will the people reveal their power! Then
will they rise for their freedom! Beware of that time! Some day Spain
shall become a republic!”
“Treason! treason!” shouted several voices.
But the listeners had been profoundly impressed and greatly stirred by
the fiery words of the daring revolutionist. Not a few felt that Esparto
was foretelling what must come upon Spain. Not a few felt that it was
coming very soon. The great masses were restive beneath the burden
thrown upon them, and that burden was increasing with each passing day.
It did seem that the time was ripe for a general uprising in Spain.
Those who listened to Esparto turned to look into each other’s eyes,
seeking to read the thoughts of their companions.
After that cry of treason there was a little silence, and then Gonzalez
snarled:
“If never before had there been anything against Señor Esparto, you have
now said enough to seal your fate. Send for the civil guards! Close the
doors, and do not let the traitor escape!”
“Stand aside!”
Esparto strode toward the door.
The revolutionist had not taken two steps when a hand that clutched a
keen knife arose above his back.
But that knife was not planted between Esparto’s shoulders.
A pistol shot rang out, there was a cry of pain, and the knife fell to
the floor!
Esparto whirled like a cat, and he saw behind him the would-be assassin
clinging to a hand that had been shattered by the bullet.
But that was not all he saw.
Standing upon a chair was an American lad who held a smoking revolver in
his grasp.
Esparto knew his life had been saved by Frank Merriwell’s shot.
Then there was a great commotion in that saloon. Knives leaped into a
hundred hands, and cries broke from as many throats. It seemed as if
that shot had been the signal for a general riot. The friends of Esparto
were not ready to stand still and see him cut down, and a general fight
broke out in a minute.
A rush was made for Frank, but the boy leaped to the top of a table, and
he held a revolver in either hand. With those weapons he stood the crowd
off for a few seconds, saying to Ephraim:
“Open the window behind me! Be quick! It is our only chance to escape!”
Ephraim was somewhat dazed, but he soon recovered, and, as nearly all
the attention of the crowd was given to Esparto and Frank, he succeeded
in reaching the window.
But he could not open it!
In the meantime Frank’s peril was increasing with each passing second,
and he knew he could not hold back that crowd of excited Spaniards much
longer.
“It is the American who killed the bull!” shouted many voices.
“Kill him!” snarled Gonzalez, seeking to urge the mob on. “He has shot
Pedor Dominican!”
“Open that window!” Frank again called, in English, to Ephraim.
“Hang the old thing! I can’t git her open.”
“Open it some way—any way!”
“All right—here goes!”
Crash—jingle—jangle!
The boy from Vermont had caught up a chair and smashed the window,
breaking out sash, glass and all.
That jangling crash betrayed the boy’s scheme to the mob.
“Stop them!” yelled Gonzalez. “The window—don’t let them get out by the
window!”
“Back!” rang out Frank Merriwell’s voice. “If you crowd me I shall
shoot!”
Ephraim leaped out through the window, whirling to see if Frank would
make the attempt to follow.
From one table to another Frank leaped, and then, doubling up like an
acrobat, he sailed through and out into the open air by way of the
window.
He struck on his feet, like a cat, and then whirled to see if Esparto
was making an effort to escape.
The revolutionist had seized the opportunity, caught up a chair, and
cleared a path to the door with the weapon. He sprang out by the door as
Frank turned to look back.
“All right!” half laughed the boy, whose usual daring, in a time of
deadly danger, was now fully displayed, making him seem utterly
reckless. “_Adios_, my Spanish friends! You are very easy indeed! We
will see you later—nit!”
Then he caught hold of Ephraim, hissing:
“Skip, old man—skip swiftly!”
A man came leaping to their side, softly crying:
“If the young Americans would escape, let them follow me. Otherwise they
will be sure to run into the hands of officers and be arrested. Come!”
Frank recognized the voice of Esparto.
Pursuers were coming after the revolutionist, crying loudly.
“Come on, Ephraim!” said Frank.
Away they went after the friendly Spaniard, who could run like a deer.
He darted into a narrow passage between two buildings, sprang in at a
doorway, with the boys at his heels, led them up one flight of stairs
and down another, brought them into a street that was poorly lighted,
turned several corners, and then passed through yet another building.
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