IN WHICH THE KING COMES TO CLAIM HIS OWN.
The party of prisoners was conducted by "His Majesty" to that upper room
which had formerly been occupied by the ladies. Mrs. Russell clung to the
royal person as fondly as ever. It was a critical hour in the destinies of
Spain.
"Where's Rita," cried "His Majesty," "that cook of cooks? It's starvin' we
are. I haven't seen her anywheres. I'll go an' hunt her up."
With these words he hurried out, followed by Mrs. Russell. They descended
the stairs, and their footsteps died away in the distance. No one was now
with the prisoners except the wounded Republicans.
"Let us fly!" said Harry, in a quick, sharp whisper.
He hurried Katie to the chimney, and, clambering up, drew her after him.
The others followed at once. Dolores came next to Harry.
"I know a secret way out," said she. "I will show the way. Let me go
ahead. I know it in the dark."
"Do you?" said Harry. "Oh, then go ahead."
Upon this Dolores took the lead along with Ashby; Harry and Katie came
next, while Brooke and Talbot brought up the rear, these last being full
of wonder at this unexpected revelation of the passage-way.
By this time each member of the party had gained a full and complete
comprehension as well as appreciation of the present state of things, both
with reference to the old lover, and also the new one. Embarrassment had
now passed away, and all were full of hope, joy, and enthusiasm.
Suddenly a hollow groan sounded through the darkness.
"Who's there?" cried Ashby, in Spanish.
"Help! help!" said a faint voice, in English.
"An Englishman!" cried Ashby, speaking in English. "Who are you?"
"Oh, help! help! I'm a prisoner. A fiend has me in her power! Once I was
named Russell, but now--oh! oh! my name is Rita!"
Full of wonder, Ashby felt his way forward, and found a man on the floor.
His legs and arms were tied. He was almost speechless, partly from terror
and partly from joy. In a few words he told his story, which need not be
repeated here.
Rita had bound him, and had only left him a short time before at the
sudden noise of their approach. It was not until afterward that they
understood the whole story, for just then they were in too great a hurry
to ask questions. A pull from Ashby's brandy-flask partly restored
Russell's strength, but more was accomplished by his joy at this
unexpected deliverance. Terror also came to his aid and lent him strength,
and he was now more anxious than any of them to fly from this awful
prison-house.
Dolores now led the way as before, and they all followed down long steps
and crooked passage-ways until at last they reached the outlet. Here they
found themselves in the chasm. A hasty consultation ended in the
decision not to go to the tower for fear lest Carlists might be there.
They concluded, therefore, to go along the chasm for some distance, and
then ascend to the open country above, and after this to go forward as far
as possible that same night.
They traversed the chasm in this way, and at length reached the top, where
they found themselves to be about a mile away from the castle. Here the
ground sloped gently, descending into a broad valley, to which they
decided to go. In this direction they therefore proceeded as carefully as
possible, and had gone about two miles in safety when suddenly they became
aware of a great noise, like the quick trot of numerous horses. It was
advancing so rapidly that they had no time to take measures for escape,
and before they could consult together a troop of horsemen came over a
rising ground in front and galloped straight toward them.
A wild look all around showed them the hopelessness of their situation.
The country was open. There was not a house or a fence or a tree or a bush
that might afford a hiding-place. Flight was useless. They could do
nothing now but trust to the faint hope that they might be deemed unworthy
of attention. But soon this hope proved vain. They were seen--they were
surrounded--they were again prisoners.
They soon learned that this new band consisted of Carlists; that they were
on the way to the castle to join the King, who had gone on before.
The King!
[Illustration: "The Jovial Monarch Caught Mrs. Russell's Hand In His, And
Proceeded To Dance."]
Katie knew who that was. Harry was puzzled, as he always had been, about
"His Majesty." Dolores also was mystified, since she had never believed
that "His Majesty" was what he pretended to be. Ashby, also, had not
believed it, and now was more puzzled than any of them. Brooke and Talbot,
however, were strangers to the pretensions of that singular being who
called himself King, and therefore hoped that this would turn out for the
best. As for Russell, he was in despair, for to him "His Majesty" was more
dreaded than any other human being, with the single and terrible exception
of Rita. And now he felt himself dragged back to meet him--worse, to meet
Rita. Despair took full possession of him. All his strength left him, and
one of the troopers had to give up his horse to the world-worn captive.
It was with such feelings as these that the party reached the castle, and
were led up-stairs into the presence of the King.
The first glance which they gave around showed them that there had been a
slight mistake somewhere.
Down below, the court-yard and the lower hall were full of men. Here there
were twenty or thirty, all in the uniform of officers; all men of
distinguished air and good-breeding; all gentlemen, and far different from
the ragged gang whom they had last encountered here.
In the centre of this company stood a man who at once attracted to himself
the eyes of the party of prisoners. He was of medium size, with heavy
black mustache and dark, penetrating eyes. He had the air of one who had
always been accustomed to the respectful obedience of others; an air of
command which rested well upon his bold and resolute face. It was the face
of one who lived in the consciousness that he was the centre and strength
and hope of a gallant party; of one who believed himself to hold a divine
commission to regenerate a fallen country; of one who knew that he alone
in all the world held up aloft at the head of an army the proud banner of
Conservatism; of one who, for this mission, had given up ease and luxury
and self-indulgence; had entered upon a life of danger, hardship, and
ceaseless toil, and every day lived in the very presence of Death; in
short, they saw before them the idol of the Spanish Legitimists--the
high-souled, the chivalrous Don Carlos.
The quick, penetrating glance which he threw upon the party soon faded
away into a pleasant smile.
"Welcome, ladies!" said he; "welcome, gentlemen! Some one spoke of a party
of prisoners; I had no hope of such good fortune as to meet with guests.
But you must have met with some misfortune, in which case let me help
you."
He spoke in Spanish, of course--a language which is usually spoken in
Spain; and a very pretty language it is, too, and one which I should
advise all my readers to learn; for they would find it uncommonly useful
in case they should ever find themselves in a castle in Spain.
It was Harry who replied. He told the whole story as far as it was known
to himself, dwelling especially upon the character and actions of that
strange being who had played the role of monarch. Harry's light and
playful nature threw a tinge of comicality around the whole story, which
was highly appreciated by all his hearers. And so it was that a smile
began to go round, until at length it deepened and developed into
laughter, and so went on deepening and broadening and intensifying, until
at last the laughter grew, if not Homeric, at least loud enough and long
enough for a castle in Spain.
"It's the Irishman!" cried Don Carlos--"it's the Irish guerilla! It's
O'Toole! The villain! he shall hang for this!"
Harry was too good-natured to feel revengeful, and was just beginning to
beg for O'Toole's life, when suddenly there arose behind them the sound of
hurried footsteps, followed by wild cries. All turned, and a strange
figure met their eyes.
It was a woman. She wore a military cloak and an officer's kepi. She
looked wildly around.
"Where is he? Where is my own one?" she cried--"'His Majesty?' Where is
the hope of Spain?"
Russell saw her.
He threw out wide his manly arms--he opened his mouth:
"Jew--li--a-r-r-r-r-r-r!"
With a long, loud cry he shouted this name, and rushed toward her.
Mrs. Russell saw him coming--her lost, lamented lord! the one whom she had
mourned as dead! Was this his ghost? or was he indeed alive? In any case,
the shock was awful for a woman of delicate nerves; and Mrs. Russell
prided herself on being a woman of very delicate nerves.
So she did what a woman of delicate nerves ought to do--she gave a loud,
long, piercing shriek, and fainted dead away in her fond husband's arms.
Don Carlos gave a grin, and then pulled at his mustache.
"Another victim," said he to the laughing company. "Oh yes; O'Toole shall
certainly swing for this. Discipline must and shall be maintained. Send
out and catch the fellow. Have him up here at once."
They sent out and they hunted everywhere, but nowhere could they discover
any traces of the brilliant, the festive, the imaginative, the mimetic,
the ingenious O'Toole. He was never seen again.
Some say that in the dead of night two figures might have been seen slowly
wending their way up the path toward the tower; that the one looked like
O'Toole and the other looked like Rita. It may have been so; many things
are possible in this evil world; and if so, we must suppose that these two
gradually faded away among the mists of cloud-land that always surround a
castle in Spain.