We halted. As the tidings brought by Francisco deprived the Padre of
utterance, I demanded particulars.
It appeared from Francisco’s indignant statement that, subsequently to
our departure, when M. le Tisanier, having made his preliminary
arrangements for our dinner, had visited the hospitals, and was
returning through the village, he was again set upon by the inhabitants.
The villagers, taking advantage of the Padre’s absence, surrounded and
insulted him, menaced both him and the four prisoners with death, and
pelted him with stones, one of which had taken effect, very much to the
detriment of his physiognomy. On reaching home, however, he occupied
himself as usual, without doing anything to excite suspicion; but, after
a while, he sent off Francisco with a message to the “two wounded
Spaniards” at the convent, and with directions to await their further
instructions. After being detained a couple of hours, which he spent in
the study of English, under the tuition of the convalescent soldiers,
with whom Francisco was popular, the two Spaniards merely gave him
directions to go home again, and he returned to the house.
On entering the kitchen, he was surprised to see what to all appearance
was a dinner ready-cooked, arranged on a tray, and under covers. M. le
Tisanier, pointing to the tray, bade him carry it to the Alcalde’s, with
a message that he himself would be there immediately. The Alcalde was
from home; and Francisco, on coming out after leaving the tray, beheld
in the street a spectacle which, as he elegantly expressed himself,
“revolved his interior” (_revolvió-me las tripas_). Close at hand
appeared, all bearing their muskets and fully accoutred, the four French
soldiers, headed by M. le Tisanier, who marched _en militaire_, with his
drawn sword sloped on his shoulder. This armed party, compelling him to
return with them, entered the Alcalde’s house, demanded all the arms on
the premises, obtained a gun, a blunderbuss, a pair of Spanish rapiers,
and a quantity of ammunition. They then, leaving behind them a basket
which contained several bottles of the Padre’s wine, went back to the
house, which immediately on their entering they barricaded, leaving the
astonished Francisco in the street.
The villagers noticed these proceedings with consternation, but had been
taken by surprise, and were overawed by the military display. After the
closing of the house, they assembled tumultuously in the street, and
meditated all sorts of things. But M. le Tisanier, appearing at the
window of an _entresuelo_ (a closet or small chamber half-way
up-stairs), warned them to disperse if they did not wish to be fired
upon; an admonition which they were the more readily induced to follow
by a bullet that whistled over their heads. They then withdrew to their
huts, anxiously watching the closed house, in which no movement was
discernible, and expecting with much palpitation the Padre’s return.
Francisco, recovering from his first surprise, had started off, he told
us, in search of the Padre and me; but not knowing which way we had
taken, assuming that we had followed our usual direction towards the
shooting-ground, and being too much confused to make inquiries, he had
covered a great deal of ground to no purpose, and had not got back to
the village till a short time before our return.
“Santiago de Compostella!” gasped the Padre, at length recovering
partially his senses and his breath, and dashing his bonnet on the
ground. “For which of my many sins was I withheld from cutting that
hangdog’s throat the first moment that I set eyes on him! Santiago!
_Trecientos mil diablos!_”
“Compose yourself, Señor Padre,” said I. “At least wait till we see how
things look, and till we can judge for ourselves. If the Doctor has been
menaced and assaulted, what wonder that he should place himself in
security till our return? The business, according to my view of it, is
not so serious as you appear to think.”
“Ah!” said the Padre, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, “you are
very kind. I totally forgot what I had just told you—that, with the
exception of the wine, I had sent off all our stores to Vittoria.—Oh no!
I mistake! Three dozen Lamego hams! Beautiful!—delicate! The choicest
rarity in these parts! Oh, my Lamego hams! To think that the poor
provision for my self-denying, self-mortifying, exemplary brethren
should go to feed those hounds of Frenchmen!”
“Never mind,” I replied, still striving to tranquillise his agitated
feelings; “should the worst come to the worst, we’ll have them out of
that long before they finish your hams. But not to lose time, suppose I
just step forward, and try the effects of a parley.”