AT BAY IN THE CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO.
As the echo of Father Hilario’s footsteps dies away adown the gloomy
corridor Ashley glances at his watch. It lacks a quarter of two o’clock.
“The trick must be done within two hours, or all is lost,” he mutters.
Then he extinguishes the light and throws himself down upon the pallet
of straw.
Ten, fifteen minutes pass. The tread of the carcelero on his rounds
sounds from the corridor and a light is flashed into the cell. A
counterfeit snore from Ashley greets him and he passes on with a
muttered “Dios! He sleeps as if to-morrow were his wedding day.” In five
minutes, his round of inspection completed, he repasses the cell door
and continues on, until silence again enshrouds the prison.
Then Ashley arises, takes out his jack-knife and opens one of the
blades, a finely tempered steel saw.
“Thank heaven for that much Yankee inventiveness!” he murmurs, as he
sinks on one knee beside the iron door of his cell and applies the saw
blade to the lower end of one of the rusty bars.
As the steel slowly but surely eats its way into the corroded iron and
finally slips entirely through, Ashley again, aided by a match, consults
his watch. It is nearly three o’clock. Scarcely had he extinguished the
lucifer than the approach of the carcelero is heard, and he retreats to
his pallet, to again feign an audible slumber.
All still once more, and he attacks the upper end of the bar. When
almost severed he seizes it with both hands and exerts all his strength.
The iron snaps, and as Ashley falls back the bar slips from his hands
and drops to the floor of the cell with a loud clang.
Jack inwardly curses his carelessness. Such a tremendous noise would
alarm the sleepiest of guards. He must act, and act quickly.
To squeeze through the space made in the door is the work of some
moments, and it is not accomplished an instant too soon. A light
approaches.
Ashley remembers that opposite his cell is another, the door to which is
ajar. With the iron bar in his hand he gropes his way across the
corridor and into the open cell. A moment later the carcelero, lantern
in hand, stands before the now tenantless pen, and stares stupidly at
the wreck of the iron door.
Before he can utter an outcry the bar in Ashley’s hand descends upon his
head with crushing force and he drops like a log.
“I hope I didn’t kill the poor devil,” thinks Jack. He drags the
unconscious man into the open cell, and, tearing and tying his
handkerchief into a gag, he makes assured the silence of the carcelero.
Then he extinguishes the lantern and is soon standing at the entrance of
the prison.
To his left is life and liberty. To his right—ah, something dearer than
life—Juanita de Quesada, locked in the little church of San Pedro, the
outlines of which stand boldly against the star-gemmed heaven.
Within that little sanctuary the altar lamp sheds a soft light over a
strange picture. Juanita is lying upon the steps of the altar, her head
buried in her arms, and near by stands Father Hilario, his arms folded,
gazing compassionately upon her.
“Why does he not come?” moans the girl, lifting her head and looking at
the priest with tear-stained eyes from which hope has not yet fled.
Father Hilario is silent. The American does not come because, forsooth,
he cannot leave his prison. But why undeceive the girl? Let her hope on
to the end.
The opening of a door behind them causes both to start. Jack Ashley
stands upon the threshold, a smile upon his face.
With a glad cry Juanita runs to him and takes both his hands. “I was
expecting you,” she says, simply.
“Thank you. And you?” asks Ashley, turning to Father Hilario.
“I bore your message. I did not expect you,” replies the priest,
regarding the young man with mingled wonder and admiration.
“Then you must have a more flattering opinion of the security of Cuban
jails than I. And now, senorita, tell me how you come to be in this
unhappy position.”
The story is brief, but interesting.
“Five minutes after you left me in the ball-room at the palace,”
narrates Juanita, “Isabel came to me and declared that we should leave
for Santos. She explained that Captain Huerta and his men were going to
Santos at once, and would escort us, and that the ride would be
enjoyable after the heat and excitement of the ball. At the mention of
Captain Huerta I know I looked displeased, and Isabel remarked
disagreeably: ‘Perhaps you would prefer the escort of Mr. Ashley.’ I
replied that I should certainly prefer it to that of Captain Huerta, and
she declared that you would not be likely to offer it, as—”
“As what?” asks Ashley, as Juanita pauses in confusion.
“She gave me to understand that you had proposed to her that night and
that she had refused you.”
“And you believed her?”
“I don’t know what I believed. But I agreed to Isabel’s proposition and
we left for Santos at once. On our arrival there we were set upon by a
party of men. All I remember is being lifted from the volante by Captain
Huerta. Then I fainted, and when I recovered consciousness I was in the
church, alone with Captain Huerta. He told me that he loved me. I
replied that I hated him, and when he attempted to put his arm around me
I struck him in the face. Then he swore frightfully and told me I would
regret the blow. ‘My father—’ I began. ‘Your father is a fugitive,’ he
sneered. ‘You are wholly in my power.’ ‘Then I will kill myself,’ I
cried. ‘Oh, no; you will come to your senses in a few hours,’ he said,
tauntingly. ‘I shall expect to find you in a better humor when I
return.’ Then he went away, locking the church door behind him.
“When he had gone I piled all the furniture of the church against the
door and then threw myself down before the altar and prayed. The opening
of a door aroused me. I lifted my head, expecting to see again the hated
face of Captain Huerta. Instead, to my great joy, I beheld Father
Hilario. When he told me of your arrest I cried out in terror. Then he
gave me your message and hope came to me.”
“And Satan came also,” quotes Ashley. “I fear your barricade would not
withstand a very earnest assault,” surveying the rude defense
critically.
“It was all I could do. But tell me of yourself,” urges Juanita. “What
is the meaning of your violent arrest?”
As Ashley unfolds the black plot, beginning with the first appearance of
the adventuress at La Quinta de Quesada, the Cuban girl grows very pale,
and she realizes how much she owes to the blue-eyed young man who
finishes his story with the smiling quotation: “And now, senorita, if a
lifetime of devotion—”
“There, do not remind me of my folly,” she protests, choking back a sob.
“I will never doubt you again.”
Thus encouraged, Ashley takes both of Juanita’s hands and whispers very
tenderly:
“In this darkest hour before the dawn I have found the courage to tell
you what has been in my heart for—for nearly three weeks,” he finishes
with a smile. Even amid the dangers that surround them, the humor of his
declaration impresses him.
A wave of crimson spreads over the girl’s face, and in the big black
eyes Ashley sees the light of a great love.
The young people’s eyes meet in mutual understanding. He draws her to
him, and the first kiss of love is exchanged. It must be followed by
many others, for Father Hilario, after waiting what he considers a
reasonable length of time, turns to the pair with an uneasy: “Well, what
is all this leading up to?”
“A marriage, I should say,” replies Jack, cheerfully. “That is usually
the logical outcome of such a situation.” Father Hilario bites his lips
impatiently.
“The church and the pastor are here, and I think the bride is willing,”
continues Jack. The young girl gives the priest an anxious look.
“It is useless to argue that matter further,” is the firm reply. “My
duty to the church forbids.” The priest’s face convinces Ashley that the
debate on the matrimonial question is closed.
“Then we must seek elsewhere for a clergyman,” he remarks, coolly.
“Come, Juanita.” And he leads her toward the little door by which he
entered the church.
“This is madness!” cries the priest, barring the way. “The town is
overrun with your enemies. It is nearly day and the place is already
astir. Hark! Do you not hear the tread of feet in the street?”
“Spanish or no Spanish, I don’t propose to remain here and be trapped
like a rat,” declares Ashley. “We can at least make a break for liberty.
I do not—”
The sound of a key being tried in the church door cuts short his words.
“It is Captain Huerta,” whispers Juanita, and she trembles like a leaf
in Jack’s arms.
“Quick, father!” commands the latter. “You reconnoiter and see if the
way through the garden and your house is clear.” The venerable padre
hurries away and Ashley improves the opportunity to shower kisses upon
Juanita’s cold and unresponsive lips.
“What a man you are!” she murmurs. “I believe you would make love on
your way to execution.”
“I should if the opportunity was offered,” laughs Jack, softly. “What
could more brightly illumine the last moments of a condemned man than to
hold in his arms, if but for a few minutes, so much loveliness?”
At that moment Father Hilario reappears. “There is no hope,” he reports.
“Suspecting all was not right, Captain Huerta has surrounded the church
and grounds with his men.”
“Then fasten that door,” says Jack. “An attack at one end is all I care
to look after.”
The bolt is shot into place, and with the click comes the sound of
muttered oaths from without, followed by a savage kick at the barricaded
portal.
“Ho, there, within!” demands an impatient voice.
At the sound of the hateful tones Juanita shudders and throws her arms
about Ashley’s neck. “Save me from that man!” she whispers.
For answer Jack takes another reef in his confidence-restoring arm, and
draws his revolver.
“Don’t move, dear,” he murmurs, solicitously. He rather enjoys the tight
embrace of those soft arms, to which terror has lent a delightful
fervency. “You need not fear Captain Huerta so long as there is light
enough to shoot by.”
It is a strange tableau that the altar lamp dimly shows. The three
figures stand immovable, as if carved in stone. Ashley is calm,
resolute, and his eyes are fixed upon the barricaded door. The
resignation of despair is depicted in the beautiful face of the Cuban
girl; her eyes seek those of her lover, her head upon his breast. They
will at least die together. Near by stands the aged priest, his arms
folded, his eyes turned heavenward and his lips moving as if in prayer.
The tread of soldiery and the rattle of steel sound from the street.
The stillness within the church is broken only by a sharp click as
Ashley’s revolver is brought to half-cock.
The seconds drag by. Every one of them seems an hour.
Then there is the sound of a rush of feet without, followed by a loud
crash, as the church door is hurled from its fastenings and piled upon
the debris of the barricade.
The gap thus made throngs with Spanish soldiery, at their head, sword in
hand, Captain Raymon Huerta. At sight of the picture within the church
he starts back with a cry of surprise and a choice assortment of
Castilian imprecations.
“You here, dog of an Americano? Who opened to thee the doors of the
carcel?” And the Spanish captain glowers around upon his followers.
“I am indebted to no one except myself for my escape from your infernal
den,” replies Ashley; and he adds, sternly:
“Hark ye, Captain Raymon Huerta. I am here to protect this young woman
from your deviltry, to protect her with my life. I warn you that any
violence to her will cost you yours.”
“Your life is already forfeited,” sneers Huerta. Then to his followers:
“Ho, there, men! Seize the Americano and leave the girl to me!”
Ashley’s arm comes up.
“Halt!” he thunders. “This woman is my wife and as such she is an
American citizen. Another step, and, by the stars and stripes, I’ll send
your leader to perdition!”
The streak of dawn that struggles in through the little window above the
altar glints upon the polished barrel of a revolver pointed straight at
the heart of Captain Raymon Huerta.
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