CHAPTER.

I. The Victim of a Woman's Preference

II. The Gate of Hazard

III. Carlists

IV. Sarita Castelar

V. The Explanation

VI. "Counting All Renegades Lovers of Satan"

VII. Sarita, the Carlist

VIII. Sebastian Quesada

IX. The Quesada Version

X. In London

XI. "The Ways of the Carlists Will be Hard"

XII. Sarita's Welcome

XIII. The Fight

XIV. A Coward's Story

XV. The Abduction

XVI. After the Rescue

XVII. War to the Knife

XVIII. At the Opera House

XIX. A Carlist Gathering

XX. At the Hotel De l'Opera

XXI. Sarita's Flight

XXII. An Unexpected Meeting

XXIII. News of Sarita

XXIV. A Check

XXV. At Calvarro's

XXVI. The Plea of Love

XXVII. Sarita Hears the Truth

XXVIII. How Luck Can Change

XXIX. Quesada Again

XXX. Suspense

XXXI. At the Palace

XXXII. Livenza's Revenge

XXXIII. The Hut on the Hillside

XXXIV. A King's Riddle

*SARITA,

THE CARLIST*

*CHAPTER I*

*THE VICTIM OF A WOMAN'S PREFERENCE*

If A won't marry B, ought C to be exiled?

Stated in that bald fashion the problem looks not unlike an equation

that has lost caste and been relegated to a nonsense book, or lower

still, to some third-rate conundrum column. And yet it was the real

crux of a real situation, and meant everything to me, Ferdinand

Carbonnell, the victim of a woman's preference.

It came about in this way. The Glisfoyle peerage, as everyone knows, is

only a poor one, and originality not being a strong point with us,

Lascelles, my elder and only brother, having taken counsel with my

father, fell back upon the somewhat worn device of looking out for a

wife with money. He was not very successful in the quest, but at length

a desirable quarry was marked down in the person of a Mrs. Abner B.

Curwen, the young widow of an American millionaire; and great

preparations were made to lure her into the net that was spread in the

most open and unabashed manner before her very eyes.

But those eyes--bright, merry, and laughing--had a brain behind them

that was practical and penetrating, and she saw the meshes quite

plainly. She accepted the hospitality with pleasure, did her best to

make a friend of my only sister, Mercy, was properly subdued, if not

awed, in the presence of my father, and, in fact, did everything

expected of her except the one thing--she would not let Lascelles make

love to her, and completely out-manoeuvred him whenever he tried to

bring matters to a head.

Moreover, a crisis of another kind was in the brewing. Mrs. Curwen

herself was not an American, but a north-country Englishwoman, who had

used her pretty looks and sharp wits to captivate the rich American, and

she took Mercy into her confidence one day to an extent that had

results.

"I am very fond of you, Mercy dear, and would give much to have you as

my sister; but your brother, Lascelles, is too formal, too stiff in the

backbone, for me. I have made one marriage for a reason that wasn't

love: but I married an old man; and when I marry again it won't be for

either position or money. I should dearly love to have you for my

sister, as I say, but I could not marry your brother Lascelles.

Ferdinand is just awfully nice--but I suppose he's a dreadful

scapegrace."

I think Mercy laughed hugely at this--her merry heart laughs at most

things--and certainly, when she told me--as being my best particular

chum she was bound to do immediately--we laughed heartily over it

together.

"She's a bright, jolly, little soul and beastly rich, but I'm not having

any," said I, shaking my head. "I don't want to cut out poor old

Cello"--this was an unrighteous nickname of ours for Lascelles, with a

covert reference to his deep, solemn, twangy voice. "But you'd better

tell the father."

"You might do worse, Nand," declared my sister. "Her wealth would give

you just the chance you want; and it would be awfully jolly to have a

rich brother, and she's a good sort; and you could settle down and----"

"Don't be a little humbug, Mercy. She's all right, I daresay; but I'm

not made that way. If I were going to succeed the father I might think

about selling myself for a good round sum; but no, thank you, I'm not in

the market. You'd better let Cello and the father know that this little

net of theirs has got fouled;" and with that I dismissed the matter, and

with no thought of trouble went off on a fortnight's visit to an old

Oxford friend.

When I got back to town, however, matters had moved fast, and plans were

cut and dried. Lascelles had come to the conclusion that if I were out

of the way his suit would prosper, and he had grown to like the little

widow as much as a person of his importance could care for anyone who

did not wear his clothes. My father and he had, therefore, set to work

with a burst of Irish zeal, and had succeeded in getting me made a kind

of probationary attache at the Madrid Embassy; and expected me to be

mightily pleased at the result of their innocent efforts on my behalf.

My father told me the good news on my arrival, and the next morning

there came the official confirmation.

My father was in quite cheerful spirits.

"Your foot is on the ladder, Ferdinand," he said, gleefully. He was

very partial to this metaphor. Life to him was a maze of ladders,

leading up and down and in all directions, of which, by the way, he had

made very indifferent use. "You may climb where you will now, my boy.

You've a steady head at times."

"I trust I shall not be dizzied by the giddy height of this position,

sir," I answered, not wholly without guile, for I was not enamoured of

this prospective expatriation in the cause of fraternity.

"I don't think it's a subject for feeble satire," exclaimed Lascelles,

sourly. "You've not made such a brilliant success of things on your own

account and during your years of vagrancy. I trust you'll remember who

you are now, and endeavour to do the family credit, and seek to climb

the ladder which our father rightly says is open to you."

"I hope you won't marry a wretched Spanish woman to carry up with you,"

said Mercy, a little pungently. She resented my exile more than I did.

"Such a remark is scarcely called for, Mercy," said Lascelles, always

glad to pose as the much elder brother, and objecting to any reference

to the subject of marriage at such a moment. But Mercy was as resentful

as a nettle when handled tactlessly.

"You mean we ought to taboo the subject of marriage just at present.

Very well, dear," she said, demurely and humbly. My brother frowned and

fidgetted on his chair, while I shut down a smile.

"Madrid has a questionable climate, but I believe it is excellent for

young strong men," said my father, obviously glad that he had not to go.

"It is fortunate you have such a knowledge of Spanish, Ferdinand. It was

that which turned the scale in your favour. Sir John Cullingworth told

me so. It's what I've always said; all boys should know a language or

two. Always lifts a man a rung or two above the crowd when the moment

comes. A most valuable mental equipment."

A perfect knowledge of Spanish, the result of years of my boyhood and

youth spent in Spain, was the one ewe lamb of my accomplishments; that,

and a bad pass degree at Oxford constituted the "valuable mental

equipment" of my father's imagination.

"It has come in handy this time, sir," I assented.

"I hope you use less slang in Spanish than in English," said Lascelles,

posing again.

"I'm afraid the prospect of our parting has got on your nerves, Cello."

"I wish you wouldn't be so disgustingly vulgar and personal as to use

that ridiculous nickname for me," he retorted, angrily.

"I wish to see you in the study, Ferdinand, in about a quarter of an

hour. I have something very important to say to you," interposed my

father, rising to leave the room, as he generally did when my brother

and I looked like having words.

"Very well, sir. I'll come to you."

"Do you know the news, Nand?" cried Mercy, as soon as the door closed

behind him, and the look of her eye was full of mischief.

"No. I've only read a couple of newspapers this morning," I answered,

flippantly.

"I don't mean news of the stupid newspaper sort; I mean real, private,

important news. This will be in the fashionable gossip next week: but

it isn't public yet."

"No--and I'm afraid I'm not very interested in it, either. Next week I

shall be in Madrid."

"Ah, but this is about Madrid, too," she cried, looking mysterious.

"What do you mean, Mercy?" asked Lascelles, who was of a very curious

turn, and not quick. "What news is it?"

"It's about Mrs. Curwen, Lascelles. She is going to stay in Madrid;"

and Mercy pointed the little shaft with a barbed glance that made him

colour with vexation.

"Upon my word, Mercy, you ought to know better. You are abominably rude,

and your manners are unpardonable," he cried, angrily. "I declare I

won't allow it."

"Allow it? Why, she didn't tell me she had to ask your permission.

But, of course, I'll tell her she mustn't go," returned Mercy, with such

a fine assumption of innocent misunderstanding that I could not restrain

my laughter.

"It will be a good thing when you are gone, Ferdinand," he turned on me,

wrathfully. "You only encourage Mercy in these acts of rudeness."

"Don't be a prig, Cello," said I, good humouredly. "You are a good chap

at bottom, and when you don't stick those airs on."

"I shall not stay here to be insulted," he exclaimed, and he retreated,

leaving us in possession of the field.

"That was too bad, Mercy. You hit him below the belt," I said, when he

had gone.

"But he's just insufferable in those moods, and he gets worse and worse

every week. And it's horrid of him to drive you away like this.

Positively horrid."

"It's all right, girlie. I'm not the first man by a good many who has

left his country for his family's good, even to climb the diplomatic

ladder. And when I've got up a few rungs, as the father calls them, and

can afford to have an establishment, you shall come and boss it, and

we'll have a high old time."

"Yes, but that's just it, Nand."

"What's just it?"

"Why, of course, you're just the dearest brother in the world and

awfully good at Spanish and all that, but I don't believe you'll be a

bit of good as a diplomatist; and you'll never get on enough to have any

place for me to boss."

"What a flatterer you are! For telling the beastly, barefaced, ugly

truth, commend me to sisters," and I laughed. "But I believe you're

right; and I shall probably never earn bread and cheese rind as a

tactician. But I'll have a good time all the same."

"Oh isn't that like a man! For sheer Christian unselfishness, commend

me to--brothers."

"A fair hit, and a bull's-eye, too. But we've always been good chums,

you and I, and what's the good of chums if they can't slang each other?

That's the test of chumminess, say I. I wish Cello was a bit of a chum

for you."

"Poor Cello," and Mercy smiled at the notion. "But I think the whole

thing's just horrid," she added; and for all her smiles she was not far

off tears. That seems to be the way with girls of her sort; so I made

some silly joke and laughed, and then kissed her and went off to the

study.

There was never anything jocular about my father; and now I found him

preternaturally grave and serious. He thought it necessary to improve

the occasion with a very solemn lecture about the start of my career,

and gave me heaps of good advice, mentioned the moderate allowance he

could make me--small enough for me to remember without any

difficulty--and then came to the pith of what was in his thoughts.

"I think it necessary to tell you, now, Ferdinand, a rather painful

chapter of our family history. You know most good families have these

things; and as it concerns some relatives of ours in Madrid, and as you

can act for me out there, it's altogether fortunate you are going."

"Relatives in Madrid, sir!" I exclaimed, in considerable astonishment.

"I said Madrid, Ferdinand; and really you cannot learn too soon that

concealment of surprise--and indeed of any kind of feeling--is one of

the essentials for diplomatic success." He said this in his most

didactic manner, and I assumed a properly stolid expression, resolved to

make no further sign of surprise let the story be what it might.

"You needn't look like a block of wood," was his next comment; and I

guessed that he was in doubt how to put the matter, and therefore vented

the irritation on me. "The fact is," he continued, after a pause, "that

you had another uncle beside the late peer; junior to both Charles and

myself. He lived a very wild, adventurous life--that's where you get

your love of wandering--and he had a very stormy time in Spain. He's

been dead many years now, poor fellow, and the circumstances are all

strange and, I suppose I must say, romantic." He said this regretfully,

as though romance had a taint of vulgarity unworthy of the peerage.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, it was the result largely of a most extraordinary marriage he

made. He was in Spain under an assumed name--the truth is he had made

such a mess of things here that the family disowned him, and having, as

you have, a splendid knowledge of Spanish, he took a Spanish name--Ramon

Castelar. His own name was Raymond. The girl was of the powerful

family of the Quesadas; but knowing him only as an adventurer and being

quite ignorant of his high birth, they turned their backs on him and

wouldn't hear of a marriage. Raymond was a daredevil in his way,

however, and the thing ended in a runaway match. A most unfortunate

matter."

My father spoke of it as a quite deplorable thing, but I admired my

uncle as about the pluckiest Carbonnell I had yet heard of. We all have

our own points of view, however.

"The end was a perfect tragedy, Ferdinand, an awful affair. The

Quesadas tried by every means to get your uncle's wife away from him and

in the end succeeded. He was in England at the time, and when he got

back to Madrid, he found his wife shut up as a lunatic, his two

children--a boy, Ramon, and a girl, Sarita, named after her mother--gone

and himself proscribed. These big Spanish families have enormous

privileges, you know; far greater than we have here. Well, he never saw

her again. She died soon after, under most suspicious circumstances,

and it seemed to quite break poor Raymond's life. He lived only for

revenge, and became a moody, stern, utterly desperate man; but he could

not fight against them. He found one chance of partial revenge at the

time of a Carlist rising. He got hold of the children in some way; and

I'm bound to say, although he was my own brother, it was a most

unfortunate thing for them. He died soon afterwards, but not before he

had ruined the boy's character. The lad was to have been a priest--the

Quesadas were seeing to that--but he broke through all control some

years ago, and--well, they tell me there is scarcely a crime forbidden

in the Decalogue he hasn't committed. The least of his offences is that

he is a Carlist of the Carlists; he has more than once attempted

violence against the Quesada family, and--in fact I don't know what he

hasn't done. What I do know is that he has involved his sister, Sarita,

in some of his confounded Carlist plottings, and it seems to be a

desperate entanglement altogether."

"Do the Quesadas know of the relationship, sir?"

"No, no, thank goodness, no. At least I think and hope not. There's

only one person in Madrid knows of that; a Madame Chansette. She is a

Quesada, it's true; but she married against the family's wish. She

married a wealthy Frenchman, but is now a widow, and she went back to

Madrid some time ago, really to try and take care of Sarita. The family

have behaved abominably, I must say; and from what she tells me there

seems to be no doubt that they've appropriated all the children's

fortune. Well, Madame Chansette has written several times, and lately

has pressed me to go over and consult with her about the children's

future. She is afraid there will be some big trouble; and what you've

got to do, Ferdinand, is just to take my place in the affair. I can't

go, of course; and you've got a head on your shoulders if you like to

use it: and you can just take a careful look into things and see what

had best be done."

"Then I suppose neither the brother nor sister knows about us?"

"God forbid," cried my father, fervently. "Unless, of course, Madame

Chansette has told them. But she's a discreet woman, although she is

Spanish; and I don't think she'd be so stupid as to tell them."

"It's a rum kettle of fish," I said, meditatively; and my father winced

at the expression.

"What Lascelles said is rather true, you know, Ferdinand. You are very

slangy in your conversation. I really think, now that you have to climb

the diplomatic ladder, you should try to curb the habit. Elegance of

diction stands for so much in diplomacy."

"It is certainly a very involved situation, sir, was what I meant," I

answered, gravely.

"That's much better, Ferdinand, and quite as expressive. I wish to feel

proud of you, my boy, and hope you will be very successful. I have

great trust and faith in you, I have indeed, if you will only try always

to do your best."

"I will try to be worthy of the trust, sir," I said, earnestly, for he

was more moved than I had ever seen him.

"I am sure you will, Ferdinand, God bless you;" and he gave me his hand.

Then I was guilty of an anti-climax.

"I think I should like to say, sir, that I know, of course, the reason

why my absence is desirable, and I hope that it will serve its purpose.

I am not in the least troubled about going."

"I am glad to hear that, my boy. Of course, Lascelles must make a

wealthy marriage if possible. We've all known the--the limitations

inevitable where there's a title without adequate resources to maintain

one's position. It makes such a difference in the world. And, of

course, if the thing goes all right, as I trust it will, and you find

Madrid unsupportable, why, you must come back. You know what a pleasure

it always is to me to have you at home. But this is--is quite

essential."

My father was at that moment called away on some political business and

our conference broke up. No opportunity of renewing it came in the next

busy days of preparation; and before the week was out I was on my way to

Madrid, to the new career which promised no more than the humdrum

routine of official work; but which, from the very instant of my arrival

was destined to negative so sensationally all my anticipations.

My very entrance upon the scene of Madrid was indeed through a veritable

gate of hazard.

*CHAPTER II*

*THE GATE OF HAZARD*

What Lascelles had termed my years of vagrancy had had one educational

effect--I understood the art of travelling comfortably. I thoroughly

enjoyed my trip across France, and as I did not intend to take my

profession too seriously, I broke my journey at Paris to renew some old

and pleasant associations.

I learnt a piece of news there which gave me much satisfaction. An old

'Varsity friend of mine, Silas Mayhew, the companion of many an unsacred

adventure, had been removed from Paris to the Madrid Embassy; and the

renewal of our old comradeship was an anticipation of genuine pleasure,

for our friendship was thoroughly sound, wind and limb.

One incident prior to my leaving London I ought perhaps to mention--the

little comedy of leave-taking with Mrs. Curwen. She and my sister had

fixed it up between them, and I learned the shameless manner in which

Mercy had been bribed to bring it about.

After my semi-understanding with my father I felt myself in a measure

bound not to do anything to interfere with the family scheme, and I told

Mercy that I should not even call on Mrs. A.B.C.--our name for the

widow. She betrayed me to her friend, however, and when I went into her

sitting-room for an agreed cup of tea and a chat on the day before that

of my departure, Mrs. Curwen was there chatting unconcernedly with

Mercy, whose face was guiltily tell-tale in expression.

"What an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Ferdinand," exclaimed the widow,

laughing.

"By whom?" said I, as we shook hands.

"What a thing it is to be a diplomatist, and to be able to say so much

in just two words. But I can be frank. I mean unexpected to you, of

course. Mercy told me you were actually going away on your wanderings

without saying good-bye to me--and I wasn't going to stand that. When

some stupid mountain or other wouldn't go to Mahomet, Mahomet went to

the mountain--like the very sensible person he was. And it was all the

same in the end."

"That 'stupid mountain' had no sister to give it away, Mrs. Curwen."

"Mercy's just the dearest friend I have in the world. And now sit down

and don't be disagreeable, and we'll have a jolly cosy little chat

together, and you shall hear the news and advise us. What's the good of

being an ambassador if you can't advise us?"

"Here's your tea, Nand;" and Mercy handed it me with a glance, asking

for forgiveness. I accepted the tea and the situation, as I do most

good things in this world, complacently.

"What advice do you want?"

"I want to know whether you think it would be quite a safe thing for

Mercy to go to Madrid for a time, say--a month or two hence?"

Mercy looked down at the tea cups and laughed. I appeared to consider.

"Yes," I said, slowly. "Yes; but I am afraid my father is not

contemplating a trip of the kind. You see, his health is not of the

best, and his engagements--" I was interrupted by a peal of laughter

from the widow.

"You are the drollest creature!" she cried. "Who said anything about

Lord Glisfoyle?"

"I don't fancy Cello has much notion of going out either--at least, not

yet," and I pointed this with a look. "And you see, Mercy could hardly

come out to me alone."

"Mercy, I do believe he'll make a diplomatist after all. He talks that

nonsense with such a perfectly solemn face," exclaimed Mrs. Curwen. "I

suppose, Mr. Ferdinand, you haven't the ghost of an idea what I mean,

have you? or what we've been planning."

"How could I? But if you have any idea of Mercy coming out to Madrid

with anyone but my father or Cello, I should say at once it would be

quite unsafe, and quite impracticable. There are a hundred reasons; but

one's enough--the equivocal position of the whole Spanish question,

owing to the unsettled relations with America."

"Nand, you're incorrigible," cried Mercy; but Mrs. Curwen laughed and

clapped her hands, for both saw the double meaning of my words.

"I think that's most lovely. Let me get that sentence--'the equivocal

position of the whole Spanish question, owing to the unsettled relations

with America'! And then say he won't make a diplomatist! Well, you must

know that Mercy and I have already got our plans fixed up. She's going

out with me. I suppose I can do as I like. And if I take a sudden

fancy to go to Madrid, I suppose I may go. And if I can't go alone, I

suppose I may take Mercy with me. At any rate, that's what I'm going to

do. I take Mercy's part in this, and agree that it's horrid you should

be packed off out of the country and away from her and all your friends

in this way, and that it's only right and proper that you should have

your sister out just to show people that you're not an Ishmaelite among

your own kith and kin. And as she must have someone to look after her,

I'm going too. I can't do less than that for my dearest friend."

"I'm sure Mercy is happy to have such a friend, Mrs. Curwen, but----"

I hesitated, and before I resumed, the door opened and Lascelles came

in. This was genuinely unexpected by us all, and apparently none too

agreeable to my brother, who stopped with a frown on his long, narrow

face. But Mrs. Curwen was equal to the occasion.

"Here is another surprise. Do come in, Mr. Carbonnell, and hear all our

plans."

"It's too bad of you, Mercy, to monopolise Mrs. Curwen in this way,"

said my brother, solemnly, smothering his mortification.

"It's not Mercy who arranged this, I assure you; I did. I'm dreadfully

unconventional, and I just wanted to say good-bye to your brother

quietly and cheer him up with the news that I mean to take Mercy out to

see him in Madrid soon; as soon, say, as he has had time to really miss

her and feel lonesome."

"That is news, indeed," said Lascelles, looking mightily uncomfortable

at hearing it. "And what does Ferdinand say to that?"

"He's rather absurd over it, I think. He says Madrid isn't a very safe

place just now. Let me see what was his reason? Oh, I know--because of

'the equivocal position of the whole Spanish question, owing to the

unsettled relations with America,'" and she looked up at him

audaciously.

"I think that's a very powerful reason," agreed Lascelles, solemnly; he

did not perceive the double application of the phrase. "There can be no

doubt that the possible war with the States, and the attitude we have

been compelled to adopt, might render the position of both American and

English people in Madrid fraught with some danger. I think Ferdinand is

quite right." He was so earnest that he was entirely surprised when

Mrs. Curwen received his remark with a burst of hearty and very

mischievous laughter.

"I must be off," I said then, seeing the prudence of retreat. "I have

lots to do. Good-bye, Mrs. Curwen. Take my advice and don't go to

Madrid. You're much better off in London."

"Good-bye, Mr. Ferdinand--till we meet in Madrid;" and the expression of

her eyes was almost a challenge as we shook hands.

She was a good-enough little soul, and pretty and fascinating, too, in

her way; but she did not appeal to me. I was perfectly sincere in my

advice to her not to come out to Madrid, and the news of her marriage

either with Lascelles or anybody else would not have disturbed me in the

least.

On my journey I thought over the incidents with no stronger feeling than

that of a kind of neutral amusement; and although I would gladly have

stopped in London for awhile and regretted sincerely the separation from

Mercy, the moving bustle of the journey, the opening of a fresh page of

experiences, the anticipation of seeing my old friend, Mayhew, and the

general sense of independence, woke my roving instincts, and I was quite

ready to forgive the cheery little widow for having been the innocent

cause of my exile, and to wish my brother success in his venture.

It was about ten o'clock at night when I arrived in Madrid, and I was

standing by my luggage waiting for the porter of the hotel to which I

had telegraphed for a room, and looking about me leisurely according to

my wont, when I found myself the object of the close scrutiny of a

stranger. He passed me two or three times, each time scanning me and my

luggage so intently that I was half inclined to be suspicious of him. He

did not look like a detective, however, and was too well dressed for a

thief; and he puzzled me. At last, to my surprise, he came up, raised

his hat, and addressed me by name in Spanish, with a great show of

politeness.

"I am not mistaken. Your name is Carbonnell, Ferdinand Carbonnell?"

"Certainly it is. The name's on my luggage," said I. I was not a

diplomatist for nothing. He bowed and smiled and gestured.

"It is also here in my instructions;" and he took from his pocket a

sheet of notepaper from which he read in Spanish, "Ferdinand Carbonnell,

coming by the mail train arriving ten o'clock." Having read this, he

added: "I am to ask you to accompany me to No. 150, Calle de Villanueva.

May I ask you to do so?"

I looked at him in profound astonishment, as indeed I well might. Then

it dawned on me that Mayhew had somehow heard of my arrival and had sent

him.

"Do you come from Mr. Silas Mayhew?"

"No, indeed. I am from Colonel Juan Livenza, at your service, senor."

This with more shrugs, bows, and smiles.

"Thank you, but I don't know any Colonel Livenza. I can, however, call

on him; shall we say, to-morrow?"

"I was to say that the Senorita Sarita Castelar wishes to see you

urgently. My instructions are, however, not to press you to accompany

me if you are unwilling; but in that case to beg you to name the hotel

to which you go, and where Colonel Livenza himself may have the honour

of waiting upon you."

"I still don't understand," I replied. I did not; but the mention of

the name of Sarita Castelar made a considerable impression upon me.

"It is my regret I can explain no more. I thought perhaps you would

know the urgency of the matter, and that it might be the result of the

telegram. But I am only a messenger."

"Telegram?" I cried, catching at the word. Could my father have had

important news about the Castelars after I had left and have telegraphed

to Madame Chansette to have me met? It was possible, for he knew my

route and the time I was to arrive. "What telegram do you mean?" I

asked.

"Alas, senor, I know no more than I say. I presume it is the telegram

announcing your arrival. But I do not know. If you prefer not to come,

it is all one to me. I will say you are going to what hotel? I was

told it was very urgent. Pardon me that I have detained you."

"Wait a moment. You say the matter is urgent for to-night?"

"I do not know. I believe it is. I was instructed to tell you so.

That is all."

At that moment the hotel porter arrived, hot and flurried and apologetic

for being late. An idea occurred to me then.

"Look here," I said to the porter; "take my things to the hotel, and

listen a moment. This gentleman has met me unexpectedly with a message

from a Col. Livenza to go to No. 150, Calle de Villanueva. I am going

there first, and do not expect to be detained long. If I am there more

than an hour I shall need some fresh clothes. Come to that address,

therefore, at half-past eleven, bring that portmanteau, and ask for me;"

and to impress him with the importance of the matter, I gave him a good

tip.

"Now, I am at your disposal," I said to the stranger.

"You are suspicious, senor?" he said, as we stepped into a cab.

"Not a bit of it. But I am an Englishman, you know, an old

traveller--and when I come off a journey I can't bear to sit for more

than an hour without putting on a clean shirt." I spoke drily, and

looked hard at him.

"You are English?" he said, with a lift of the eyebrows. "Some of the

English habits are very singular."

"Yes, indeed; some of us have a perfect passion for clean linen--so much

so, in fact, that sometimes we actually wash our dirty linen in public."

Not understanding this, he looked as if he thought I was half a lunatic;

but what he thought was nothing to me. If there was any nonsense at the

bottom of this business, I had arranged that the hotel people should

know of my arrival, and where to look for me; and my companion

understood this. In the rumbling, rattling, brute of a cab the clatter

was too great for us to speak, and after one or two inefficient

shoutings we gave up the attempt, and I sat wondering what in the world

the thing could mean.

I was curious, but not in the least suspicious; and when we drew up at

an important-looking house, I followed my companion into it readily

enough. The hall was square and lofty, but ill-lighted, and the broad

stairway, up one flight of which he took me, equally gloomy. He ushered

me into a room at the back of the house and left me, saying he would

tell the Colonel of my arrival.

The room, like the rest of the house, was dimly lighted, and the

furniture heavy and shabby, and abominably gloomy and dirty. I was

weary with my journey, and threw myself into a big chair with a yawn and

a wish that the business, whatever it might be, would soon be over. No

one came for some minutes, and I lighted a cigarette and had smoked it

half through, when my impatience at this discourteous treatment got the

better of me, and I resolved to go in search of some means of bringing

this Col. Livenza to me. Then I made a disconcerting discovery. The

door was locked or bolted on the outside. I looked about for a bell,

but there was none. There was, however, another door, and that I found

unfastened.

I had now had enough of this kind of Spanish hospitality, and was for

getting out of the house without any more nonsense. The second door

opened into a room which was quite dark; but as soon as my eyes had

grown accustomed to the darkness, I made out a thin streak of light at

the far end, which told of another door, ajar.

I crossed the room very cautiously and slowly, lest in the darkness I

should stumble over any furniture, and was close to the door, when I was

brought to a sudden halt by hearing my own name pronounced by a heavy,

strident, and obviously angry voice.

"I tell you, gentlemen, this Ferdinand Carbonnell is a traitor and a

villain. He is playing a game of devilish duplicity, pretending to help

the Carlist cause and intriguing at the same time with the Government.

He has come to Madrid now for that purpose. There are the proofs. You

have seen them, and can judge whether I have said a word too much in

declaring him a dangerous, damnable traitor."

In the start that I gave at hearing this extraordinary speech, my foot

struck a small table and overturned it. Some kind of glass or china

ornament standing on it fell to the ground, and the crash of the fall

was heard by the men in the room, who flung the door wide open and came

rushing in to learn the cause.

*CHAPTER III*

*CARLISTS*

A man does not knock about the world for nothing, and the one or two

ugly corners I had had to turn in my time had taught me the value of

thinking quickly and keeping my head in a crisis. I looked from one to

the other of the men--there were three of them--and asked in a cool and

level tone--

"Is either of you gentlemen Colonel Livenza?"

"I am. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"Considering the rather free use you've been making with my name,

Ferdinand Carbonnell, and that I was brought here by someone who called

himself your messenger--and, if I'm not mistaken, is now standing beside

you--and was left in a locked room yonder, that question strikes me as a

little superfluous. Anyway, I shall be glad of an explanation," and I

pushed on through the door into the lighted room.

The men made way for me, and the moment I had passed shut and locked the

door behind me. I affected to take no heed of this act, suggestive

though it was, and turned to Colonel Livenza for his explanation.

He was a dark, handsome fellow enough, somewhere about midway in the

thirties; a stalwart, upright, military man, with keen dark eyes, and a

somewhat fierce expression--a powerful face, indeed, except for a weak,

sensual, and rather brutish mouth, but a very awkward antagonist, no

doubt, in any kind of scrimmage. One of the others was he who had met

me at the station, and the third was of a very different class; and I

thought that if his character paired with his looks, I would rather have

him in my pay than among my enemies.

"So you are Ferdinand Carbonnell?" cried the Colonel, after staring at

me truculently, and with a gaze that seemed to me to be inspired by deep

passion. The note in his voice, too, was distinctly contemptuous. What

could have moved him to this passion I could not, of course, for the

life of me even guess.

"Yes, I am Ferdinand Carbonnell, and shall be glad to understand the

reason of this most extraordinary reception, and of the far more

extraordinary blunder which must be at the bottom of it."

"You carry things with a high hand--but that won't serve you. We have

brought you here to-night--trapped you here if you prefer it--to make

you explain, if you can, your treachery to the Carlist cause, and if you

cannot explain it, to take the consequences."

The gross absurdity of the whole thing struck me so forcibly at that

moment, and his exaggerated and melodramatic rant was so ridiculously

out of proportion that I laughed as I answered--

"Really this is farce, not tragedy, senor. I have never seen you

before; I know nothing of you or your affairs; I am not a Carlist, and

never have been; I am not a Spaniard, but an Englishman; I have just

come from London; and I assure you, on my honour as an Englishman, that

you are labouring under a complete mistake as to myself. I beg you,

therefore, to put an end to a false position, and allow me to leave,

before you make any further disclosures which may compromise you and

these other gentlemen."

Whether this declaration would have had any pacifying effect upon him

had I not prefaced it with my ill-advised laughter I cannot say; but the

laugh seemed to goad him into a paroxysm of such uncontrollable rage

that he could barely endure to hear me to the end, and when I ended, he

cried, in a voice positively thick and choking with fury--

"You are a liar, a smooth-tongued, hypocritical, cowardly liar; and

having done your dirty traitor's work, you seek to cheat us by these

lies. I know them to be lies."

This was unendurable. However much the person for whom this angry fool

mistook me deserved this flood of abuse, it was certain that I didn't,

and I wasn't going to put up with it. The quarrel, which belonged

obviously to somebody else, was fast being foisted on to me, but no man

can stand that sort of talk, and my temper began to heat up quickly. I

moved a pace or two nearer, to be within striking distance, and then

gave him a chance of retracting.

"I have explained to you that you have made a mistake, and in return you

call me a liar. I repeat you are entirely in error, and I call upon

you, whoever you are, to withdraw your words unconditionally, make such

enquiries as will satisfy you of your blunder, and then apologise to me.

Otherwise----"

He listened with a smile on his face, and shrugged his shoulders

contemptuously, at my unfinished sentence.

"Well, otherwise? I tell you again you are a liar and a perjured

traitor to the cause."

I raised my fist to strike him in the face, when the two others

interposed, thrust me back and away from him with considerable violence,

and then covered me with their revolvers.

"No, no; none of that," growled one of them, threateningly. "You've

done enough harm already. If what we believe is true, you're not fit for

that kind of punishment. We'll deal with you, for the cursed pig you

are."

I was not such a fool as to argue against two loaded revolvers levelled

dead at my head and held within a yard. But it struck me that Colonel

Livenza was not altogether satisfied with the interruption, and that he

had some kind of personal interest in the affair which was apart from

the motives of his companions.

"Do as you will," I said, after a second's thought. "And do it quickly.

The people at the hotel to which I was going know where I have come. I

told them; and a messenger will be here shortly from there." I intended

this to frighten them; and for the moment it did so. But in the end it

acted merely as a warning, and gave them time to concoct a lie with

which to get rid of the hotel porter when he arrived.

One of them kept me covered with his pistol while the others talked

together and referred to some papers which lay on a table. Then the man

who had met me at the station, and whom I judged to be in some way the

Colonel's inferior, turned to me with the papers in his hand, and began

to question me.

"You admit you are Ferdinand Carbonnell?"

"My name is Ferdinand Carbonnell; I am an Englishman, the son of Lord

Glisfoyle, an English nobleman, and I have come to Madrid from London to

join----"

"Enough; you are Ferdinand Carbonnell. You have just come from Paris,

haven't you?"

"I came through Paris, from London." A sneer showed that he regarded

this admission as a contradiction of my previous statement. "Paris is

on the direct route from London," I added.

"And on the indirect route from a thousand other places," he retorted.

"Your only chance is to stick to the truth. You shall have a fair

trial, and it will go less hard with you if you speak the truth. I am

Felipe Corpola, and this is Pedro Valera--you will know our names well

enough."

"On the contrary, I never heard your names until this instant, nor that

of Colonel Livenza until it was told me at the station."

"Santa Maria! what a lie!" exclaimed the third man, Valera, in a loud

aside; and by this I gathered they were two Carlists prominent enough to

be fairly well-known in the ranks of that wide company.

"On the 20th of last month you were at Valladolid, two days later at

Burgos, and two days later still at Saragossa, urging that a rising

should take place there simultaneously with that planned at Berga two

months hence in May."

"I have not been at either of those places for three years past. At the

dates you mention I was in London; and I warn you that you are giving me

information which may prove very compromising for you and those

associated with you. I am no Carlist." My protestation was received

with fresh symptoms of utter disbelief.

"You were to go to Paris in connection with the funds needed for the

enterprise; the two leaders chosen to go with you to receive the money

were Tomaso Garcia and Juan Narvaez; and a list of the names of all the

leaders in the matter was given to you."

"This is all an absolute blunder," I cried, indignantly. "I know nothing

whatever of a jot or tittle of it."

"I warned you not to lie," cried Corpola, sternly. "This is all proved

here in black and white under your own name;" and he flourished before

me some documents. "This is the charge against you and explain it if you

can. Almost directly afterwards our two comrades, Garcia and Narvaez,

disappeared; nearly the whole of the men whose names were on that list

given to you were arrested at one swoop by the Government; and a secret

information in your handwriting together with the original list of the

leaders found their way into the hands of the Government. Explain that

act of foul treachery if you can"--and his voice almost broke with

passion--"or may the Holy Mother have more mercy on you than we will

have."

The intense earnestness and passion of the man were a proof of his

sincerity, and also of the danger in which I stood. The whole thing was

a mad mistake, of course; but that I could prove it in time to stop them

taking the steps which I could see they contemplated was far less clear;

and for the moment I was nonplussed. Up to that instant I had been so

confident the mistake would be discovered that I had felt no misgivings

as to the issue. But the sight of Corpola's burning indignation, his

obvious conviction. that I was the man who had been guilty of the act

which had so moved him, and my intuitive recognition that his fanaticism

made him really dangerous, disturbed me now profoundly.

"Speak, man, speak," he cried, stridently, when I stood thinking in

silence.

"I can only say what I have said before, that it is all a horrible

mistake. I am not the man you think me."

"You are Ferdinand Carbonnell, you have admitted it."

"I am not the Ferdinand Carbonnell you accuse of treachery."

"What! Would you fool us with a child's tale that there are two

Ferdinand Carbonnells? Can your wits, so subtle and quick in treachery

spin no cleverer defence than that? By the Virgin, that one so trusted

should sink so low! All shame to us who have trusted so poor a thing!

Can you produce the list that was given you, or tell us something to let

us believe that at the worst it was filched from you when you were drunk

and so conveyed to the Government. Anything, my God, anything, but the

blunt fact that we have harboured such a treacherous beast as a man who

would deliberately sell his comrades." The sight of his passion tore me

as a harrow tears and scarifies the ground.

"What I have told you is the truth. I am not the man."

"It is a lie; a damnable lie, and you are the paltry, filthy dog of a

coward that you were called and shall have a dog's death. What say you,

Valera?"

"He is guilty; serve him as he has served our comrades," growled the

brute, with a scowl, taking some of the other's vehement passion into

his more dogged, sluggish nature.

"Colonel, you are right. He _is_ the traitor you declared, and I give

my voice for his death. Aye, and by the Holy Cross, mine shall be the

hand to punish him;" and he raised it on high and clenched it while the

fury of his rage flashed from his eyes, flushed his mobile swarthy face,

and vibrated in his impetuous, vindictive utterance. I had never seen a

man more completely overwhelmed by the flood of passion; and for the

moment I half expected him to turn his pistol on me there and then and

send a bullet into my brain.

Colonel Livenza appeared also to have some such thought for he put

himself between us.

"We must be cautious, Corpola," he said, and drew him aside to confer

apparently as to the best means of dealing with me, Valera meanwhile

keeping me covered with his revolver.

What to do I could not think. I made no show of resistance; that was

clearly not my cue at present; but I had no intention of giving in

without a very desperate attempt to escape; and I stood waiting for the

moment which would give me the chance I sought, and planning the best

means. By hook or crook I must get possession of one of the revolvers,

and I watched with the vigilance of a lynx for an opportunity; I was a

stronger man than either of the three and my muscles were always in

excellent trim, and in a tussle on equal terms I should not have feared

the result of a scrimmage with two of them. Unarmed, however, I was

completely at their mercy; and hence my anxiety.

The Colonel and Corpola were conferring together, arguing with much

energy and gesture when someone knocked. The door was opened cautiously

and I heard someone say that the porter from the hotel had brought my

bag and had asked for me. There was another whispered conference, and

then a message was sent in my name to the effect that I was not going to

the hotel that night and probably not on the next day, as I had been

called away. I would send for my luggage later. I protested vehemently

against this, but my protest was disregarded; and I suffered a keen pang

of mortification at seeing my precaution quietly checkmated in this way.

It impressed upon me more vividly than anything else could have done the

reality of the peril in which I stood.

When the messenger left, the discussion between the Colonel and Corpola

was resumed, and I began to eye my guard more closely than ever, for

some sign that his vigilance was sufficiently relaxed to enable me to

make a spring upon him and seize his weapon.

But just when I was in the very act of making my effort another

interruption came from without. There was a second knocking at the

door, this time hurried and agitated, and a voice called, urgently and

vehemently,

"Colonel Livenza, Colonel Livenza! I must see you at once."

It was a woman's voice, and the three men were obviously disturbed at

it.

"Quick, you two. Take him into the next room," said Livenza, in a

whisper.

Corpola and Valera seized me, and each menacing me with his revolver and

pressing the barrel close against my head, led me into the dark room

adjoining, Livenza opening the door and closing it again the instant we

had passed.

"A single sound will cost you your life," whispered Corpola, fiercely

into my ear, giving an additional pressure of the pistol-barrel by way

of emphasis.

But he did not succeed in scaring me to the extent he hoped. The

circumstances were now as much in my favour as I could expect to have

them. It was not a pleasant experience to stand between two desperate

fanatics in a dark room with their pistols pressed close to my head; but

it was obvious that I had only to jerk my head out of the touch of the

pistols to make it exceedingly difficult for my guards to regain their

advantage.

Despite my awkward plight I was hopeful now, for both were positively

trembling with excitement.

"What is the meaning of all this?" I whispered; designing merely to get

them off their guard. "That was a woman's voice."

"Silence!" said Corpola, in a fierce whisper.

"Very well," I answered, with a big shrug of my shoulders.

This action was designedly intended to embarrass the two men, and for

half a second the pressure of the pistol-barrels was relaxed; but that

half-second was sufficient for me. I slipped my head back from between

the pistols, and at the same moment caught the two men from behind and

thrust them against each other; then turning on Valera, the weaker of

the two, I gripped his revolver in my left hand, caught his throat with

the other, and dragged him across the room, scattering chairs and tables

and bric-a-brac in my course, and having wrested his weapon from him,

flung him away from me into the darkness. Then I fired the revolver and

sent up a shout for help that echoed and re-echoed through the room.

A loud cry in a woman's voice followed, then the sound of an excited

altercation in high tones, the door of the room I had just left was

thrown open and Colonel Livenza and a woman's figure showed in the frame

of light.

"Have a care," I called. "I am armed now and desperate." But at that

moment there was the flash and report of a pistol fired close to me and

Corpola, who had used the moment to approach me stealthily from behind,

threw himself on me. I had twice his strength, however, and my blood

being up I turned on him savagely, and, untwisting his arms, seized him

by the throat, and fearing Livenza might come to his aid, dashed his

head against the wall with violence enough to stun him. Then jumping to

my feet again and still having my revolver, I rushed to square matters

with Livenza himself, who alone stood now between me and freedom.

At that instant the woman spoke.

"You are Ferdinand Carbonnell. Have no fear. You are quite safe now. I

came here on your account." The words were good to hear in themselves;

but the voice that uttered them was the most liquid, silvery and moving

that had ever fallen on my ears; and so full of earnest sincerity and

truth that it commanded instant confidence.

As she spoke she stepped back into the room and I saw her features in

the light. To my surprise she was no more than a girl; but a girl with

a face of surpassing beauty of the ripest southern type, and her eyes,

large, luminous, dark brown glorious eyes, rested on my face with a look

of intense concern and glowing interest.

"You will not need that weapon, Senor Carbonnell," she said, glancing at

the revolver I still held.

"I am convinced of that," I answered, smiling, and tossed it on to the

table.

"I thank you. You trust me," she said, with a smile, as she gave me her

hand. "I am Sarita Castelar, this is my good aunt, Madame Chansette;

Colonel Livenza, here, is now anxious to make amends to you for the

extraordinary occurrences of to-night."

He was standing with a very sheepish, hang-dog expression on his face,

and when she looked at him, I saw him fight to restrain the deep

feelings which seemed to be tearing at his very heart during the few

moments he was fighting down his passion. He looked at me with a light

of hate in his eyes, crossed to the door, and threw it open.

"If I have made a mistake I regret it," he said, sullenly.

"Senor Carbonnell will give his word of honour, I know, not to speak of

anything that has happened here to-night," said the girl.

"Willingly. I pledge my word," I assented, directly.

"Then we will go. Our carriage is waiting; will you let us take you to

your hotel?" And without any further words we left the room and the

house, Sarita insisting that I should lead Madame Chansette while she

followed alone, having refused the Colonel's escort.

*CHAPTER IV*

*SARITA CASTELAR*

The rapid kaleidoscopic change in the situation, and the surprising

means by which it had all been brought about, were so profoundly

astonishing that for a time I was at a loss for words to thank the

wonderful girl who had come to my rescue.

The palpitating actuality of imminent danger; the vehemence of Corpola's

wild, fanatical passion; the tension as I stood in the dark room waiting

for the moment to strike; the exertions of the two desperate struggles

which followed, and then the sudden transition to the perfect assurance

of safety which followed the intervention of Sarita Castelar, were

succeeded by some minutes of reaction. I could not instantly reconcile

myself to a return to the atmosphere of every-day commonplace.

The mere utterance of an ordinary formula of thanks seemed so inadequate

to the occasion that I sat still and silent as we dashed through the now

nearly-deserted streets, thinking over the whole mystery and wondering

what could possibly be the clue.

Before I had collected my wits the carriage drew up with a jerk at the

hotel.

"I have not thanked you," I said, feebly.

"You can do that another time if you think thanks are necessary. We

shall be at home to-morrow afternoon. There is much to explain. Will

you come then? 28, in the Plaza del Nuovo. But you know where we

live."

"Yes, come, Senor Carbonnell," said Madame Chansette, "I am anxious to

speak with you--most anxious."

"My dear aunt is in sore need of diplomatic advice to control her

turbulent niece," said Sarita, laughing. "We shall expect you, mind."

"I shall certainly come," I answered, eagerly. "But I want----"

"No, no, not to-night. Everything to-morrow. Good-night;" and she held

out her hand and dismissed me.

I stood staring blankly after the carriage, and then walked into the

hotel feeling much like a man in a dream, dazzled by the beauty of the

girl who had rendered me this inestimable service; and when I reached my

room I threw open my window, gazed out over the moon-lit city, and

steeped my senses in a maze of bewildering delight as I recalled the

witchery of her inspiring voice, the glances of her lustrous, wonderful

eyes, and the magnetic charm of her loveliness. At that moment the

thoughts dearer to me than all else in the world were that she was so

interested in me that she had done all this for my sake, that she was my

cousin whose future and fortune her guardian wished me to protect and,

above all, that I was to see her again on the morrow, and for many

morrows. Madrid had become, instead of a place of exile, a veritable

city of Blessed Promise.

How long I gazed out into the moonlight and rhapsodised in this fashion

I do not know; but I do know that I had a sufficient interval of lucid

commonsense to be conscious that I had fallen hopelessly in love with my

cousin at first sight, and it was a source of rarest ecstasy to picture

in fancy the great things I would achieve to serve her, and to hope that

a chance of doing some of them would come my way. And when I got into

bed and fell asleep it was to dream that I was doing them.

I am not exactly a rhapsodist by nature; and the lapse into wistful

dreaminess had all the charm of the unusual for me; but the morning

found me in a much more practical frame of mind.

I reviewed coolly the strange events which had heralded my arrival in

Madrid, and certain points began to trouble me; that there should be

someone of doubtful repute of the same name as my own, and that so

glorious a creature as Sarita Castelar should be deeply mixed up with

Carlists of such a desperate character as those who had menaced my life.

Those were the matters which needed to be cleared up first, and I would

ask her freely about them that afternoon. But in the meantime prudence

warned me to hold my tongue about everything.

I went to the Embassy to report myself, and afterwards had lunch and a

long chat with my old friend, Mayhew. His knowledge on all matters and

persons in Madrid was quite cyclopedic, and he told me a hundred and one

things that would be useful for me to know. I need only refer to two

subjects. We were speaking of Spanish politics when he mentioned a name

that kindled suddenly all my interest.

"The man of the hour here is Sebastian Quesada, the Minister of the

Interior," he told me. "He is out-and-away the most powerful member of

the Government, and, I believe, a most dangerous man. He plays for

nothing but his own hand, and allows nothing to stand in his way. The

most ghastly stories are told of him; and I believe most of them are

true, while all of them might be. He will court you, fawn on you,

threaten you, promote you, anything in the world so long as he can use

you, and the instant you are useless to him or stand in his way, he

kicks you out of it, ruins you, treads you in the gutter, imprisons you,

or, if needs be, gets a convenient bullet planted in your head or a

knife in your heart. You smile, but he has done it in more instances

than one. He is piling up money fast by the most disreputable and

dirtiest methods; and Heaven and himself only know how rich he is, for

he is a veritable miser in his avarice and secrecy. But he has what so

few in this strange, lackadaisical country possess--indomitable will and

tireless energy. If you come his way, Carbonnell, give him as wide a

berth as you can; or, look to yourself. And if ever you have to cross

swords with him, arrange your affairs, make your will, and prepare for

failure before you start on the expedition."

"I have heard of him," I said.

"Europe will hear of him, too, unless some one of his victims gets a

chance to assassinate him. If this were a Republic, he would be

President, and his policy would be pretty much like that of the

Moors--he'd make his position permanent by killing off every possible

competitor. And I'm not by any means sure that he won't yet be the

first President of a Spanish Republic."

And this was the man who had filched the Castelar's patrimony, and it

was to be part of my task to try and force him to disgorge it! A

hopeful prospect.

"By the way, do you know a Colonel Livenza?" I asked.

"I know of him--Colonel Juan Livenza, you mean. There's not much to know

about him. He's a cavalry officer of good family, held in fairly high

esteem, and said to be a man of exemplary life. A royalist of the

royalists; a bigot in his loyalty indeed, they say; and like all bigots,

narrow-creeded and narrow-minded. A follower of Quesada, and either a

believer in him or a tool. Presumably, Quesada hasn't yet had need to

use him and get rid of him. But that day will come. Livenza is pretty

much of a fanatic in his religion, his politics, and his militarism; and

like all fanatics, has to be watched, because one lobe of the brain is

always too big for the skull, and may lead him into danger. At present,

indeed, it is sometimes whispered that he has a much more dangerous

fanaticism than politics or religion--a passion for that turbulent

little revolutionary beauty, Sarita Castelar. Now, Carbonnell, if you

want a type of perfect Spanish beauty----"

"I know of her," I interposed, having no wish to hear his comments.

"Her guardian, Madame Chansette, and my father are old acquaintances."

"Oh, well, keep your coat buttoned up and well padded on the left side

with non-conducting substance when you come under the fire of the

brightest eyes in Madrid. And keep your own eyes open, too," he said,

with a glance and a laugh.

I did not think it necessary to tell him how nearly his words touched

me, and I am glad to say my looks kept the secret as closely as my lips.

But I thought with a smile of his caution when I started a little later

for Madame Chansette's house, and found my heart beating much faster

than was at all usual or necessary.

I was conscious of a little disappointment when I found Madame Chansette

alone, and even the warmth of her very cordial welcome did not make

amends.

"I am so glad you have come to Madrid, Mr. Carbonnell. I am in such need

of advice and assistance; and Lord Glisfoyle writes me that you know

everything."

"He told me something before I left London, but his chief instructions

were that I should endeavour to find out precisely the position of

things here, and then report to him, with any suggestions that might

occur to us."

"We sadly want a man's capable head in our affairs," she said, weakly.

"I am really dreadfully afraid at times."

"My strange experience of last night has told me something; would it be

well for you, do you think, to say quite freely, what you fear, what

troubles you, and what you think should be done?"

"I don't understand that affair last night at all. It distressed and

frightened me so; but there are so many things I don't understand. What

I wish is for Sarita to go away with me, either to Paris or England.

She is getting so involved here. She is a dreadful Carlist, as I

suppose you know; and believes she can play a great part in the

political affairs of the nation. As if that were possible in a country

like Spain. How it will end I am afraid to think. But we shall all be

ruined;" and she sighed and tossed up her hands with a gesture of

despair.

"But women are not taken very seriously in politics here, are they?" I

asked.

"This is not politics, Mr. Carbonnell; it is conspiracy. The child

worries her pretty head from morning to night, from one week to another,

with all sorts of plots and plannings--I don't know a quarter of

them--and Heaven be thanked I don't, or I should be in my grave. And

then there's her brother. You know Ramon is really dangerous, and does

awful things. I wouldn't have him here--but then, thank Heaven, he

daren't show his face in Madrid. As if he, a young fellow, little more

than a boy, silly enough to commit himself so deeply with the Carlists

that he is actually compelled to keep in hiding, and fly about from

place to place, always dodging the police and the soldiers, could hope

to fight successfully with a powerful man like my nephew, Sebastian

Quesada. I tell them both--at least, I tell Sarita, and I suppose she

manages to communicate somehow with Ramon, for really she does some

wonderful things--I tell them both they had much better give up all

thought of trying to get back their fortune. He'll never give up a

peseta. I suppose I know my own brother's child's nature. I'm a

Quesada--you know that, I think--and I tell them that they might as soon

expect to be King and Queen of Spain as to make Sebastian disgorge what

he has once got hold of. Besides, there is no need. I have plenty for

them both; and who should have it, if not my dear sister's children? At

least, Ramon must really behave better if he wishes to regain my

favour."

Madame Chansette was as voluble as she was inconsequential, and it was

not until I questioned her closely that I could get any grasp of the

case. She talked to me at great length, apparently much relieved to

have someone into whose ear she could pour the tale of her troubles, and

on whom she thought she could lean for support in them.

I could get few definite facts. Madame Chansette told me, as my father

had done, that Ramon had been intended by his family for the priesthood,

but had broken his vows, and had plunged into a life of dissipation, and

had attempted to get a reckoning with Sebastian Quesada and recover his

and Sarita's fortune. He was a wild, passionate lad, no match for

Quesada in any respect, and had been driven by his passion to make two

attempts on his enemy's life. As a result he had been proscribed, and

had to live in hiding. He had then become a Carlist of the most violent

kind, a veritable firebrand; moving from place to place under assumed

names, and stirring up rebellion in all directions. He had also drawn

his sister into his schemes, and she had so compromised herself that

Madame Chansette had written in the last extremity to my father to beg

him to intervene.

"There must be some man's capable head in the matter, or we shall all be

ruined," she exclaimed dismally five or six times; although what the

"man's capable head" was to do to restrain the very wilful beauty was

not clear. Madame Chansette, as it seemed to me, meant that she was

tired of the sole responsibility, and wished to share it with someone

who could be blamed if matters went wrong.

"The position is a very difficult one," I admitted.

"Of course, I told her you were coming; that Lord Glisfoyle was as much

her guardian as anyone, and that, as you were representing him, you

would have authority yourself. You do agree with me, don't you, that

she ought to give up this--this dangerous mischief, and just try to play

a woman's legitimate part and get married? Of course, if you don't

think that, your coming will only make matters worse than they were

before; but I'm sure you will. You must have seen for yourself in that

affair last night, whatever the meaning of it all was, how dangerous

this conduct is, and how sure to lead to mischief."

"Have you told Sarita that you yourself would leave Madrid if she did

not do as you wish?"

"My dear Mr. Carbonnell, how could I?" cried the dear, weak old lady,

apparently aghast at the notion. "How could I possibly leave the sweet

child here alone? What would she do without me? Besides, how could I?

Why, she rules me just as she rules everyone else who comes in contact

with her. She wouldn't let me go;" and she smiled so sweetly and

feebly--"and I love her so. No one can help it. It would kill me to

leave her."

As this was somewhat difficult of reply, I said nothing; and after a few

seconds she glanced at her watch and exclaimed--

"Oh, dear, my time is all but up, and I fear I have got so little way

with you." Seeing my perplexed expression, she laughed, and added: "Of

course, my seeing you alone first is Sarita's arrangement. She does the

drollest things. She declared that she would give me every chance of

persuading you to side with me, and that she would not say a word of any

kind to you to influence you until you and I had had an hour's private

conference. And now, what will you do, Mr. Carbonnell?" and she put her

white, thin hand on my arm, and looked quite eagerly into my face.

"I will promise to serve you to my utmost, Madeline Chansette," I said.

"Spoken like an Englishman and a diplomatist," exclaimed the voice that

had so thrilled me on the preceding night; and, turning, I saw Sarita

had entered the room unperceived. "You would make poor conspirators,

you two, for you've been plotting against me with an open door," she

added, coming forward.

She looked even more lovely than on the previous night, and she gave me

as warm a welcome as had Madame Chansette--put both her hands into mine

and held them, without a touch of self-consciousness, as she gazed

frankly and searchingly into my eyes. She appeared satisfied with a

scrutiny that was rather embarrassing to me, and smiled as she withdrew

her hands.

"Yes, I am glad you have come, cousin Ferdinand. I suppose I may call

him cousin Ferdinand, aunt Mercedes? I don't know how you do in more

formal England, but we Spaniards are quicker in the use of the Christian

name," she added to me. "I wanted to look closely at you. It is a new

thing for me to have a male relation who may be a friend--or an enemy,

such as my dearest aunt here. I have only Ramon, whose friendship is

more dangerous at times than another man's enmity would be; and my other

cousin, Sebastian Quesada." The tone in which she uttered the name was

intensely significant. "Yes, yes, I am satisfied. I am glad you have

come. You are true. You trusted me instinctively last night; and I

will trust you always. My impressions are never wrong. But you will not

find me tractable any the more for that; I mean in my dear, dear,

dearest aunt's sense of the word," and she kissed the little old lady

once for each of the epithets.

"I will try to deserve your words of welcome, cousin Sarita," I said

earnestly, but conscious of a clogging tongue.

"I hope so--for you are one of those men who always succeed when they

really try. But you have already promised to serve this dear, dreadful,

tyrannous, loving enemy of mine. So take care;" and she laughed softly

as she was bending over Madame Chansette and settling her more

comfortably in her chair. "You are to show that 'capable man's head'

which aunt Mercedes is never tired of declaring is so much needed in our

affairs." She sat down close to Madame Chansette and took her hand. "I

am a sad rebel, am I not, little tyrant?"

"If I didn't love you so much, I should be a far better guide for you,

child," was the simply-spoken reply.

"Aye, with a love as sweet and tolerant and true as a mother's," said

Sarita, softly. "So sweet that it makes even rebellion like mine

difficult and hard at times. You must know, cousin Ferdinand, that we

are a most divided pair. In all but our love--which nothing can ever

disturb or threaten--we are like the poles, so far apart are our tastes,

our principles, our ways, our aims, our lives, everything. You can

think, therefore, how we have discussed you. At first aunt Mercedes

said Lord Glisfoyle would come; and then I was not interested. I knew

what a man of his years would say to me; and there was nothing before me

but flat, dogged rebellion. But when we knew that he was not coming,

and you were to come in his place--ah, that was different indeed. I

warned my dearest that her last hope was gone; that youth--even

diplomatic youth--would side with youth, and that if she looked to you

for help in her plans, she would be disappointed. We discussed you,

analysed you, weighed you, thought of you, talked of you, and, I think,

each resolved to win you. I did;" and she smiled frankly.

"Sarita!" exclaimed Madame Chansette, protestingly. "You must have mercy

on Mr. Carbonnell. He does not know you."

"I will have no mercy where he is concerned. You would not have me

spare you the truth, or hide how much we were interested in you?" she

cried to me. "Why should you not know how much you have been in our

thoughts, seeing how much you were to influence our lives? I will deal

with you perfectly frankly."

"I may hold you to that pledge," I interposed.

"Oh yes, I will tell you everything, presently. But I was so sure of

you that I readily agreed Aunt Mercedes should have the first interview

with you to poison your ears and prejudice your judgment against me--if

this dearest and best of mothers to me could prejudice anyone against

me. And, you see, I was right--she has not succeeded;" and she flashed

a glance of challenge at me.

"Have I already shown my thoughts?" I asked.

"How gravely judicial and impartial you would be," she retorted. "But I

can go even farther. I can put my good aunt's case with greater force

than she would put it, I am sure, and yet be confident. I am a Carlist;

I am saturated with a love of liberty; I am in league with many

dangerous men; I am fighting against a hopelessly powerful antagonist; I

am steering a course that aims at achieving ideal happiness for my

country, but much more probably may achieve nothing but utter shipwreck

for myself; I have an unruly ambition; I am learning to be a man; to

think of, hope for, work for the objects of men; I am daring to lead

where I should scarcely venture to follow; I am even mad enough to take

ideals to my heart and to strive for them; and this best of women

believes that in daring to take a man's part I run a risk of ceasing to

be a woman. She would have me lay down the task, break with my ideals,

leave my country to those who now misrule it, and fly--to safety. Do

you think I should do this? or if I _should_, that I shall?"

"Before I answer I will hear your own side," I said, quietly.

"Ah, there spoke an Englishman--a man with a microscope, to examine,

try, inspect, measure, and compare this with that, and that with this,

before you venture an opinion. What a wonderful thing is English

discretion. But you shall hear it."

Madame Chansette rose at that, and Sarita rose too, and took her arm

tenderly and, as it were, protectingly.

"I will leave you. Sarita will speak freely, Mr. Carbonnell; but

remember she is steering for shipwreck--her own words."

They went away together then, and presently Sarita came back alone.

"You will think ours a strange household and a stranger partnership.

But for all our conventionality we love each other as if we were mother

and daughter; and I know how much I make that dear heart suffer at

times." She paused, and then said: "And so you are the real Ferdinand

Carbonnell. You were surprised to find your name so well known in

Madrid? To me amongst others?"

"Tell me what that means," I said.

"It is your own name used intentionally," was the somewhat startling

reply.

"My own name? Used by whom?"

"There is no other Ferdinand Carbonnell in all Spain than yourself. You

are, as I say, the real Ferdinand Carbonnell."

She looked at my puzzled face with a half whimsical, half doubting

expression, and then burst into one of her sweet, musical, witching

laughs. "You shall know everything," she said.

*CHAPTER V*

*THE EXPLANATION*

Sarita did not speak for some time but sat with a very thoughtful look

on her face which she turned now and again toward me, as though some

point in her reverie had been reached which concerned me and made her

doubtful.

"Yes, I am sorry, deeply sorry, and would undo it if I could!" she

exclaimed at last, giving an impulsive utterance to her thoughts, and

then jumping up and pacing the floor.

"Sorry for what?" I asked. "If it concerns me, as it seems to, pray do

not trouble. I am not of much account."

"I am sorry that we used your name. Had I known what manner of man you

were, nay, could I even have guessed you would ever come to Madrid, I

would never have sanctioned it."

"Suppose you tell me what the thing means. I am not very quick, and I

confess to being very much puzzled."

"It means that part of what you heard last night is quite true.

Ferdinand Carbonnell is a Carlist leader--a secret leader, you

understand--but held for one of the most dangerous, desperate, and

capable of them all. And yet there is no Ferdinand Carbonnell in all

Spain but yourself."

"I don't see that that need distress you or disturb me very seriously,

whatever the puzzle may mean. A name is only a name, after all. But

what is this puzzle?"

"Now that I see you I know that we have wronged you," she cried,

vigorously.

"The weight of even that responsibility need not prevent your speaking

plainly. Let me hear about it. It's very likely I shall enjoy it as

much as you have, probably, up till now--I am not exactly like other men

in all respects. I'm no stickler for conventionalities."

"Ferdinand Carbonnell, the Carlist leader, is really an embodiment of

Ramon's and my Carlism. Let me tell you the truth. So long as I have

known that your father, Lord Glisfoyle, was my uncle--and Aunt Mercedes

told me some two years ago--I have bitterly resented his conduct in

ignoring us, leaving us to bear the injustice of these Quesadas, our

other relatives, and treating us, his brother's children, as though we

were outcasts, pariahs, unworthy of his aristocratic recognition."

"You have wronged my father, cousin. I believe he has always held it

his business to know that matters were well with you."

"Knowing you now, I can believe that. But I thought that some little

trouble on his part, for a boy needs a man's hand, would have made my

brother's life a far better one. We Spaniards, too, are quick to

anger--and do not always stay to think. I grew to hate the names of

Glisfoyle and Carbonnell; and when Ramon's great trouble came, when his

wildness drove him to seek Sebastian Quesada's life and he failed, and

was proscribed and had to take another name, he and I together chose

yours--Ferdinand Carbonnell. It was Spanish enough to pass for the name

of a Spaniard; and we took a delight--malicious, wrong-headed, unholy

delight if you will--in building up for it a character which would at

least shock the prudish sensibilities of a noble English family should

they ever hear of it."

"I understand, partly; but still I don't see that it was such a very

terrible matter," I added with a smile. "As I say, a name is no more

than a name." I was anxious to lessen her very obvious concern; and did

not in reality take the thing at all seriously.

"It came within very little of being terrible, last night," she replied.

"I don't know that. I had plenty of fight left in me even at the

ugliest moment. And at any rate, the ending more than made amends for

the whole suspense." She made a quick gesture of protest. "But what

was meant by the suggestion that your Ferdinand Carbonnell had been

guilty of treachery?"

"Wait, please. When we created the mythical Ferdinand Carbonnell, it

was because there seemed no room for me, a girl, in the great work of

Carlism; I therefore introduced a new element into the form of

agitation. Instead of all the leaders knowing each other and

interchanging views personally and openly, only a few of the leaders of

the new movement were to know one another; there was to be as much

secrecy as possible and Ferdinand Carbonnell was to be the mythical and

yet terribly real centre of all. To establish that was our first

stroke. Ramon did it under my guidance; going from place to place, now

in one name now in another; but everywhere speaking of, and advocating

the new departure, and everywhere preaching up the greatness of the new

and secret leader, nameless to many, and to the chosen few known as

Ferdinand Carbonnell."

"Very mysterious," said I, not quite seriously, despite her earnestness.

"But these men spoke of interviews with people, of delegates to go with

me to Paris, of lists of names given to me, and so on. As if Ferdinand

Carbonnell were anything but an impersonal myth."

"There is something in that I have not probed; but it was false--a

tissue of falsehoods. Why, it would make Ramon and me traitors," she

cried in a tone of splendid repudiation. I thought a moment.

"But it was this same treachery which set these men first to snare and

then threaten me. And I am much mistaken if there was not a personal

motive of hate at the back of this Colonel Juan Livenza's conduct. Can

your brother have used this name anywhere or at any time, and can he and

these men have fallen foul of each other?"

To my surprise the question loosed a full rich flood of crimson colour,

and the flush spread up to the brow until the whole face glowed like a

brilliant damask rose.

"You will have to know these matters," she said, with a touch of

embarrassment. "No, Ramon has used the name once or twice, but never in

that way. These two have never met; or he would have known last night,

of course, you were not Ramon. No, it is this. Ramon and I meet very

seldom--though we love one another dearly--and as I am afraid on his

account to let people know that he is my brother, our meetings have to

be secret, and--might be mistaken for those of a different character."

"I see."

"I have to-day found out that herein our own house there has been a spy;

spies here are as plentiful as fools," she cried, contemptuously. "This

was a woman whom I trusted somewhat, and she carried news of my concerns

to Juan Livenza. She may have told him of my meetings with Ramon; it is

likely, for she did not know Ramon was my brother. She has very

possibly jumbled up some connection between him and Ferdinand

Carbonnell; for Ramon has written to me often in that name, and I to

him, sometimes. Then she probably saw here a reference to your arrival

here last night, or she may have heard Aunt Mercedes and myself

discussing it; and she has carried the news to her employer. It is easy

for men in some moods to see facts in either fears or hopes."

"And his mood was?" At my question and glance her colour began to mount

again.

"He loves me." She met my look half-defiantly, her eyes fixed on mine

as if daring me to utter a word of protest. But the next instant the

light died out, her glance fell to the ground, and she added: "I could

win him to the cause in no other way."

I had to put a curb of steel strength on myself to prevent my feelings

speaking from my eyes, or in my gestures; and in a tone as cold and

formal as I could make it, I replied--

"You are not afraid to use sharp weapons. And yourself? Do you care?

I had better know everything."

She raised her head, flashed her eyes upon me, drew herself up, and said

with great earnestness--

"I have no heart for anything but the cause." A very stalwart champion

she looked for any cause, and very lovely.

"I begin already to take your aunt's side in the matter, and to think

you will get into too deep waters, cousin Sarita." She laughed, easily.

"The deeper the water the greater the buoyancy for those who know how to

swim. I am not yet enough of a man to count dangers in advance."

"It is not difficult to despise dangers one doesn't see or credit."

"Nor to take a map and write 'pitfall,' 'abyss,' 'precipice,'

'dangerous,' in blood colour at every inch of a road you mean to travel.

Nor with us Spaniards does that kind of timorous dread pass for high and

prudent valour." She uttered the retort quickly, almost angrily.

"I am not a map-maker nor colourer by profession," I answered, slowly,

with a smile. "But if I were, I confess I should like to have something

more about a particular route than the bald statement that, 'This road

leads to--blank' or 'That to blazes.' A knowledge of the country is

never amiss, and a tip at the crossroads--and there are plenty of

them--can come in mighty handy." I spoke coolly and almost lazily, in

deliberate contrast to her fire and vehemence, and when I finished she

looked at me as if in surprise.

"And you are the same man as last night?" she cried, wrinkling her

forehead.

"Oh, that was different. There are moments when you have a stiff bit of

country to negotiate, and you have to jam your hat down over your eyes,

shove your heels into your nag's side, and take it as it comes, hot foot

and all hazards in, and get there. But the pace that wears for everyday

work is the jog trot, with a wary eye even for a rabbit hole or a

rolling stone."

"Give me the reckless gallop. I am angry with you when you play at

being the man with the microscope. I don't want such a man on my

side--cold, phlegmatic, calculating, iceful. I would have a cousin, not

a lawyer. I am not a microscopic object, to be analysed, probed, peered

at, and stuck on a pin for the curious to wonder at. I am a woman, warm

flesh and blood, a thing of life and hopes and aspirations, and I want a

friend, a sympathiser, a cousin. But a man with a microscope, ah!" and

her eyes were radiant with disdain.

"You think I would not--or could not--serve you?" I think my voice must

have said more than my words, for she turned upon me swiftly, her face

glowing with a different light and softened with a rarely seductive

smile.

"Are you trying to dupe me? To hide your real character? Are you

posing as a mere piece of investigating diplomatic machinery? Oh, how I

wish you were. Do you know you tempt me sorely to tell you what I meant

to keep secret? My eyes are not easily blinded, cousin Ferdinand; have

a care," and she shook her finger laughingly at me, and then sat down

near me, and in a position which, when I looked at her, caused me to

face the full light. Not a little embarrassing, considering all things;

but I controlled my features carefully. "Are you really cold and

calculating and fireless, with just flashes of energy and light; or is

the fire always there, and do you know it and fear its effects, and

stamp it down with that resolution that now sits on your brow and sets

your face like a steel mask?" and she leaned forward and looked closely

at me.

"I am full of desire to help you!" I said, controlling my voice.

"Full of desire to help me," she echoed, setting her head on one side

whimsically, and pausing. Then she asked, seriously, "What would you do

to help me?"

"Surely that must depend upon the case that calls for my help!"

"What an Englishman you are! If only we Spaniards were like you, what a

nation we should be!" This with a flash of enthusiasm that was all

sincere. "How long have you known of my existence, cousin?" she cried,

harking back to her growing purpose.

"A few days."

"And were you told I was in deep trouble? None of your great, lordly

house have yet concerned yourselves with us!"

"A proper rebuke perhaps, if you have been in trouble."

"If? Is it not so?"

"You don't wear the trappings of trouble; this house----"

"How English again!" she burst in. "What sort of a coat does he wear?

How does she dress? And when you know that, you judge the character!"

"Not all of us."

"You wish me to think you an exception?"

"At least my sympathies with you should guide me right."

"That is pretty and not unpromising; but what was my trouble as

described to you? Did it stir your sympathies?"

"I have not yet a clear knowledge of all your trouble. I wish to know."

"That you may help me?"

"That I may help you, if you will let me."

"I believe you would," she exclaimed. "I almost believe it, that is.

Why is it that while we Spaniards hate you English, we can't help

believing your word?"

"Hate is a strong word," said I, with a glance.

"It is a strong feeling, cousin."

"Fortunately our relation is not international."

She laughed, softly, musically, and ravishingly.

"No, not international in that respect."

"So that we are able to make a treaty of alliance," I said.

"Offensive and defensive?" she cried, quickly, and seemed to wait

somewhat anxiously for my answer.

"Defensive certainly," I replied. She gave an impatient shrug of her

shoulders and half turned away. "And offensive--with limitations," I

added. "There are limitation clauses in every treaty of alliance." She

turned to me again, and looked at me long and steadfastly; then sighed

and rose.

"I have never been so tempted in my life, cousin Ferdinand. But I will

not. No--no;" another deep sigh. "I dare not. But while I am in the

mood--for I am a creature of moods and a slave of them--let me tell you

what you ought to know. I have lately been desperate, and in my

desperation I planned to draw you into the snare. I needed you. I

wished to make use of you. No, no, don't smile as if the thing were

nothing, or as if you were too strong, too cautious, too level-headed,

too English, to be caught even in a Spanish snare. Let me finish. We

need someone in the British Embassy here; some friend to our cause, who

will help us with information, will form a link between us here and our

friends in London; and when I heard you were coming, I intended you to

fill that role. It was wicked, horribly wicked, and cowardly, too; but

for the cause I would do any crime and call it virtue," she exclaimed

vehemently.

"And now that you have seen me, you don't think I'm worth the trouble?"

I asked, looking at her.

"I should prize your help more than ever," she cried, with equal

vehemence; adding slowly, "but I will not take it."

"You would never have had it in the way you planned, cousin. But for

anything short of that it is yours at any moment for the mere

asking--aye, without the seeking, if the chance comes. It is, however,

Sarita my cousin, not Sarita Castelar the Carlist, that I wish to help."

"Do you think you can draw a distinction? No, no; a thousand noes. You

cannot; for I can only strike at Sebastian Quesada through my Carlism.

If you knew his power and influence, and my weakness, as a girl, you

would know that: one individual, unnoticed girl, one puny leaf of

millions rustling on the twig to oppose the tempest strong enough to

strip the whole tree. What is my weakness to his power? and yet--I will

beat him; face him, drag him down, aye, and triumph, and drag from him

that which he holds in his thief's clutches, and execute on him the

justice which the law is powerless to effect."

"You hate this man deeply?"

"Should a daughter love the man who killed her mother, or a sister him

who ruined her brother?"

"You cannot fight against him. It is impossible. This time I am but a

few hours in Madrid, but I have already learnt the facts of his immense

influence and power."

"I don't ask your help," she said, wilfully.

"That is not generous. What I can do to help I am ready to do. But it

is a mad chase." I shook my head, as if discouragingly; but, in fact,

the very difficulties of the matter appealed to me and attracted me. I

recalled Mayhew's caution against crossing swords with Quesada, and the

danger of it was anything but displeasing. I did not speak of this to

Sarita, however.

"You will not frighten me from my purpose," she said, with a smile of

self-confidence; "and I will tell you what no one else dreams--I am

certain to succeed. There will always be one door to success open to me

if I have the courage to use it--and it will need courage--the courage

of a foiled, desperate woman. When all else has failed, that will

succeed."