I grasped it warmly.

"I think we can do no better than make our way back by the Coudova road.

I know it well, and we can cover most of the way at the gallop. If

anything should have been heard of this, Her Majesty will be almost mad

with anxiety."

"Ah, my dear mother! You are as thoughtful as you are brave, senor.

What a debt do we and Spain not owe to you!"

"Forward then," I said, and urging my horse to a quick canter we pushed

on rapidly.

We scarcely spoke as we rode, except when I had a word to say about the

direction. I on my side had no wish for conversation, and the young

King needed all his strength and attention for his horse. Twice,

however, we had to draw rein to wind the horses up hills and then he

asked me the question which I had been anticipating and which I did not

know how to answer.

"You have not told me your name, senor?"

"And with your Majesty's permission I will for the present remain

unknown. I am an Englishman, and having been a witness of the attack

upon your carriage, followed in the hope of being of service."

"An Englishman!" he exclaimed, in great surprise. Then, after a long

pause, "I have always read and heard what a brave nation you English

are--now I know it for myself. But you must let us know your name. My

mother will insist; and I--well, I should never be happy unless I knew

it. I am only a boy, senor; but I shall never forget you, and never

rest till I have shown what I think of your courage."

"It is more than probable I may some day ask you for some favour; but

for the present permit me to remain unknown."

We galloped forward again then, and as we rode I thought the matter

over. If it were known at once in the palace that Ferdinand Carbonnell

had effected the rescue, there would be two immediate consequences, both

likely to be disastrous to my plans. The Carlists would assuredly hear

of it, and my life would be in danger; while Sebastian Quesada would

know at once, and my chances of successfully fighting him would be

almost hopelessly minimised.

When we drew rein the second time, therefore, at a hill just before we

reached the city, I carried the plan further.

"Your Majesty was good enough to say that you trusted me; may I at once

request a favour?"

"There is nothing you can ask in my mother's or my power to grant,

senor, which you may not now consider granted before it is sought," he

answered, enthusiastically.

"It is that you will permit me to leave you as soon as we come in sight

of the Palace, sire, and that you will grant me an audience at some

future time."

"Ah, you strain my gratitude, senor, with such a request," he cried with

a right kingly air. "My mother will never forgive me if I let you leave

me until she has thanked you. You cannot know her, if you ask this. As

for the second request, where I am you will always be a most welcome

guest, and my most esteemed and trusted friend." Then, guiding his

horse close to me, he put his hand on my arm, and lapsing again into the

boy, he said eagerly and pleadingly: "Do let my mother thank you, senor.

You must."

"I have more than private reasons, sire. Permit me to press my

request." I spoke firmly, for my mind was made up: and perceiving it,

he gave way.

"But how shall I know when some senor incognito asks for an interview

that it is my friend?" and he laughed.

"We were close to Podrida when I was fortunately able to rescue you; if

I send you word that the Englishman of Podrida desires an audience, you

will know."

"The Englishman of Podrida!" he repeated, smiling. "The Englishman of

Podrida. Yes. That will do. No. Stay, I have a fancy, and will make

a request in my turn. You wore a mask. Give it me as a keepsake, and

it shall be the sure password to me. When an Englishman wants to see me

concerning a mask, I shall know it is you, my Englishman of Podrida;"

and he laughed, almost boisterously, as I handed him the silken mask.

"But my mother will be sorely disappointed," he added, his face falling.

"There is only one other point, sire. You will do me a further favour

if you will suppress the fact that it is an Englishman who has been so

fortunate as to help you, and if in giving any version of the facts you

will keep that for your own knowledge and for her Majesty's ears only."

"Surely none but an Englishman would ask that," he answered; but he gave

me the promise, and a quarter of an hour later the Palace came in sight,

and we halted.

"I shall see you again soon. I shall be all impatience."

"If your Majesty keeps to the arrangements for your attendance at the

Opera to-night, a scrutiny of the crowd who will welcome you may

discover my face among those present. It would be a wise and reassuring

step."

"I shall be there, of course," he said, and gave me his hand.

I watched his boyish figure as he rode sharply forward and entered the

Palace gates, the sentries saluting with a start of surprise; and then,

turning my horse aside, I made my way back to the stables, and from

there drove to my own rooms.

I was naturally elated, and indeed exultant, at the success of my scheme

of rescue. Come what might, I had made firm friends at the Palace, a

result that might be of incalculable value in the crisis that I knew was

at hand. But I had still much to do, and in truth scarcely knew what

step to take first.

I held in my possession the proofs, in Quesada's own handwriting, of his

complicity in the abduction plot, and had seen for myself the precision

of his information and the deadly reality of his plans against the young

King; but how could I bring it home to him? He would deny everything,

and my word against his would be no more than a puff of air against a

cannon ball.

Gradually one group of questions disentangled themselves from the rest

as of chief importance. How to secure Sarita's safety? I knew that

Quesada had everything in readiness to strike a crushing blow at the

Carlists, not only in Madrid, but in other centres of disaffection. I

believed that he had laid his plans for this in order to stamp out the

whole agitation when once the King was out of the way; but how would he

act now that half the scheme had failed? More than that, how would

Sarita herself act? There was but one means to find this out--to see

them both with the least delay; and in the meantime to warn Livenza to

fly.

I changed hurriedly into evening dress and drove to Livenza's house; and

there I found strange news awaiting me. The place was in possession of

the servants only. My uneasiness may be imagined when I learned that

the reason for this was nothing less than a visit from Quesada himself.

"The colonel was ill, and the young doctor was in attendance when I came

this afternoon," I said to the servant. "How came he to recover so

quickly as to be able to leave the house?"

"I do not know, senor. The Senor Quesada came here about an hour and a

half since, and insisted upon seeing my master. The doctor protested,

but the senor prevailed; and some ten minutes later the doctor left the

house and has not returned. Senor Quesada remained some time with my

master--he was here perhaps half an hour in all--and some few minutes

after he left my master went out. I know no more."

Remembering the doctor's address, I drove there at once, and what he

told me made matters appear not better, but worse.

"You did not tell me there was any political intriguing involved in this

work," he said, with some indignation. "A pretty mess for me it may be,

with mighty ugly consequences. Had I known, I should have left the fees

for someone else to earn."

"There is nothing of the kind," I answered pretty sharply. "You can

come to no harm. I will hold you harmless."

"Thank you for nothing. I know Senor Quesada's influence and power to

hit hard, and I don't know yours."

"This was a matter between Colonel Livenza and myself. Will you tell me

what passed this afternoon?"

"Senor Quesada came there in a devil of a temper, and when I tried to

stop him seeing my patient, his reply was the pretty one that if I

attempted to resist him a minute longer he'd pack me off to gaol for a

Carlist. And by the Lord he meant it too: for he hadn't been closeted

with Livenza five minutes before he came out to me and told me I was

either a dupe or a conspirator, and that if I wasn't out of the house in

a twinkling he'd take the latter view and act on it; and that there was

much more in the thing than I seemed to think."

"And you left?"

"I'm not quite such a mule as to prefer a gaol to my present quarters,

thank you."

"You have not had your fees," I said, pulling out my purse to pay him.

"And don't want any, if you please."

"You explained, of course, that I had retained you?"

"I told him everything that had passed, and thank my patron saint I got

out of the place without a police escort."

I made such apology to him as I could, and left him, quite unappeased

and still full of indignation, and drove in all haste to Quesada's

house, feeling very anxious. Matters were moving very fast, much faster

than I had anticipated, and I saw that I must play my card boldly.

I half expected he would deny himself, but I was shown in without

hesitation, and his sister came to me. She was looking very troubled and

pale, I thought; but she greeted me with her customary warmth and

cordiality.

"You have not been to see us since your return from England, Senor

Carbonnell. That is not how we interpret friendship in Spain."

"I have been back only two days, senorita, and they have been very full

ones. I pray you to excuse me. And even now I have come to see your

brother on business."

"That is engagingly frank, at any rate," and she tossed her head.

"I am very clumsy in my phrase, I fear; but very anxious. Do not think

it is not a pleasure to me to see you."

"Do you English generally seek pleasure by avoiding it?"

"Scarcely so; but with us self-denial is sometimes counted a virtue,"

and I made her an elaborate bow to point the compliment.

"Have you practised the same self-denial with all your Madrid friends?"

and a sharp little glance told me her meaning.

"I am unfortunate indeed; for all my Madrid friends are making the same

complaint."

"I am surprised. For they have not all the same ground as I have. Do

you know how much I wish to be your friend, senor?"

"I know that I could not rank your friendship too high."

"Ah, you fence with me; but it is useless, I know. And the time may come

when my friendship may be of more account to you than a mere well-turned

phrase."

"It must ever be one of my choicest possessions," I answered, wondering

what on earth she meant now.

"Sebastian is not at home just now, but he will be here soon. Do you

think you are wise in seeing him?"

"I have come for that purpose, senorita," I said, firmly.

"What have you done to alienate him? Don't you know that although he

can be a true friend--and he wishes above all things to be one--he can

also be a much more powerful enemy?" There was no mistaking her tone

now for any but one of solicitude for me. What had he been telling her?

"I should have made poor use of my intercourse with him if I did not

know that," I answered. "But will you tell me exactly what you mean?"

"No--I cannot; except that you have angered him sorely in some way, and

if you are not careful will stand in great danger."

"That must be as it will, senorita. But I was wrong to put that

question to you. I should rather put it to your brother himself, and I

will do so."

"Could you not leave Spain for a while?"

At that moment we heard the sounds of someone in the hall outside the

room; and the senorita drew a quick breath, bit her lip, and turned to

listen.

"That is Sebastian. Oh, senor, be careful, and do what he may suggest

to you; be advised by him. You have rendered us such a service he will

not forget it, of course he never can. But do not anger him. I too am

your friend; and I can help you. Do, do let us be your friends. I can

do much with him, and for my sake he will, I know, do what he can. When

I think of your possible danger, it strikes me to the heart; it kills

me. Let me beg of you," and her agitation was so great that she was

scarcely coherent. "But there is one thing you must not try to thwart

him in. Oh, I scarcely know what I am saying," and she wrung her hands

in such manifest distress that I was deeply surprised.

"I am in no danger, senorita," I answered calmly, to reassure her. "But

if I should be, the knowledge of your warning and of your offer of help

will always be a welcome thought." To my yet deeper surprise my words

appeared to affect her profoundly, and she seized my hand and pressed

her lips upon it, the tears in her eyes.

Scarcely a reassuring preface for my interview with her brother, who

entered the room a moment later. He gave me a sharp, penetrating look,

glanced, I thought angrily, at his sister, and exclaimed in a tone of

surprise, "Dolores!" and then, after a pause, "You had better leave us."

He held the door for her to leave, and as he closed it behind her he

turned to me and said, with a questioning frown on his forehead--

"Are you here as a friend, or in what capacity?"

"I have much to say to you," I returned calmly. "And we can best ask and

answer that question mutually when the interview is over."

I met his look with one as firm as his own, and he sat down at his

writing-table and waited for me to open the ball.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*WAR TO THE KNIFE*

I did not keep Sebastian Quesada waiting, but plunged at once into my

business.

"I do not think our interview need be a very long one, and I will state

my object at once. It concerns Sarita Castelar. I know that

preparations for decisive action against the Carlists have been made,

and that all is in readiness for the signal from you. I have just heard

very terrible news in the city to-night, concerning a mad wild act of

theirs, and being anxious for a reassurance on the senorita's account, I

have come to ask you for it."

"You will do more wisely not to interfere in our political matters," he

answered curtly, with a frown at the mention of Sarita.

"I am obliged, of course, by your friendly counsel; but excuse me if I

say I have not come for advice, but information."

"I have none to give you;" and his tone was even sharper than before.

It was as stern and hard indeed as his look was dour. But in a moment a

great change came. His eyes softened and his face brightened, and,

using the tone of our former intercourse, he added: "Why can't we remain

friends, Carbonnell? Why do you come to me like this? It is but an hour

or two since we parted, and nothing can have occurred since that need

estrange us; and there was no cloud between us then. Don't you think I

wish to be your friend now as I did then?"

I looked at him in considerable surprise. His overtures did not touch

me in the least; I was searching for his motive and could not find it.

"Before you and I can speak again of friendship, there are matters which

must be explained," I answered, coldly. "Since I saw you this

afternoon, you have impliedly accused me of complicity in this Carlist

business: I have that from the doctor whom you frightened away from

Colonel Livenza's house. You have also intervened in the quarrel

between Colonel Livenza and myself--a quarrel which had its origin in an

errand on which you sent him."

He listened closely, and was too skilled in masking his looks to give

any indication of the effect of my words. But I thought he was

surprised when I stopped, having said so little.

"Your quarrel with Livenza was the outcome of the scene at the Cafe de

l'Europe, where the hot-headed fool insulted you."

"No, that was the open cause. The real one was the result of his coming

to Senorita Castelar's at the time I was there--a visit timed by you."

"Livenza is in love with the senorita, and hopes to marry her; and you

know how some of us Spaniards feel on such matters. But what is this to

me?"

"You had given me good news to carry to her, you knew when I was going,

and you sent Livenza there. What happened afterwards was the direct

consequence."

"It is preposterous!" he cried, with a shrug of the shoulders. "As if I

could be responsible for what two angry men do when they quarrel.

Really!" and he laughed. Clearly he was relieved that I had nothing

worse to say. "I am glad at any rate that you have not hurt each

other." This with a scarcely veiled sneer.

"When a man who professes to be my friend deliberately tries to embroil

me in an affair which may cost me my life, I do not dismiss it with a

shrug of the shoulders and a laugh, as something too trivial to be

noticed. But if you will give me the information I came for, I will

go."

"I have no information to give you;" and he got up.

"To that I answer I am not going without it, nor without an assurance

and a proof of Sarita Castelar's safety--and safety without any

entangling complications;" and I looked at him as I said the last

sentence with a meaning that did not escape him.

"The only information I can give you is that which to-morrow will be

public property; that our police and soldiery are even now engaged in

hunting out these reckless traitors and conspirators who have carried

their audacity to the point of abducting our beloved young King. All

those who have had a hand in this dastardly scheme will suffer, and if

the Senorita Castelar has been mad enough to meddle with such treason,

no power in the State can save her from the consequences."

But instead of being impressed by his vehemence I smiled.

"And you say _all_ would suffer?"

"Every man, woman, and child concerned. I have this moment come from a

Council of State."

"And the master mind who planned this coup and by whose help and

information it was alone possible?" As I half unsheathed this sword of

attack, his own weapon leapt at once from the scabbard, and he answered

hotly--

"Is one Ferdinand Carbonnell, senor?" He spoke with grim significance,

meeting my look with eyes full of fire and threat, and his

misinterpretation of my meaning was wilful. "A name that at a word from

me will be full of peril for its owner. We Spaniards love our King with

a force which the people of other countries cannot fathom."

There was no mistaking his meaning. He knew of the coincidence which

had bound up my name so closely with the Carlist intrigues, and he was

threatening to saddle the responsibility upon me. Nor was it by any

means an empty threat in the present temper of the loyalists. Once get

me packed away into a Spanish gaol on such a charge, and I might whistle

either for the chance of a fair trial or an opportunity of even

communicating with the outside--to say nothing of approaching the King.

The scent of personal danger began to come near; and I recalled how on

more than one occasion he had warned me against meddling with Carlist

matters.

He watched me closely in the short pause, and then broke it to say in a

tone conciliatory and temperate--

"I am still willing to be your friend. Leave Madrid to-night and cross

the frontier with all speed, and all may be well. I cannot answer for

what my colleagues will do when they know who Ferdinand Carbonnell is,

and that he is a member of the British Embassy staff. Be advised and go

while there is time."

He had flashed the sword of danger in my face, and now, like a clever

tactician, dangled the chance of escape before me.

"Do I understand you to mean that, knowing thoroughly who I am and that

I am absolutely untouched by these matters, you yourself would be so

mean a liar as to say that I am Ferdinand Carbonnell the Carlist?" I

spoke with the galling sting of slow, precise deliberation; and even his

practised self-restraint could not repress a start of anger nor prevent

his sallow face turning pale at this thrust. But my anger had betrayed

me into a bad blunder--I saw it the moment the words were out of my

lips; and as he recovered himself he shrugged his shoulders and threw up

his hands as he faced me. It was a declaration of war from me, and as

such he treated it. His tone was as level as my own--stern, official,

and hard.

"I know nothing of yourself or your history except what you have told

me. You say you came here a few weeks since, and yet I find your name

known everywhere. You rendered my sister a service, and then used it to

work your way into my confidence. In that confidence I have said many

things to you, which you may have used for these Carlist purposes. I

gave you my confidence and my friendship because I believed all you told

me. If my faith in you was wrongly placed, you have had opportunities

of getting information. Things have, I know, leaked out, but I have

never thought of you before in this connection. For aught I know to the

contrary--for I know only what you have told me, I repeat--you may be

this other Ferdinand Carbonnell."

"By God, but you are a blackguard," I cried, my rage leaping quite

beyond control, as I jumped to my feet. "The worst that men say of you

is not half so bad as this foul conduct. Do your worst. Tell this lie

if you will. Fling me into one of your gaols if you dare--and I will

leave it to prove that the man who planned this act against the King,

which fills you now with such honest patriotic indignation, was not

Ferdinand Carbonnell, but you, Sebastian Quesada, and prove it I can

under your own handwriting. Stop," I thundered, as I saw him making his

way to the bell to summon assistance. "Try to bring your servants here,

and I'll fling myself on you and choke the life out of you before they

can come. I have yet a word, and you'd better hear it. You wrote me a

note to-day to ask me to ride with you." He started and glanced at me

as I made an intentional pause. "At the same time you were writing

another note giving the latest news of the young King's movements, so

that these Carlists might trap him safely. That note I received and

possess; the other went to your jackal Livenza for him to make the

necessary arrangements. Those notes are in safe hands, and if you dare

to lay a finger on me the whole plan will be revealed--the whole truth

told, with all your black treachery uppermost."

His answer was more in character than any he had yet made. He turned to

his table and sounded his bell vigorously; and for a few moments of

tense silence we waited.

"Send Senor Rubio to me," he said to the servant who came.

I knew the name as that of one of the chief police agents; and knew also

that he had determined to have me arrested.

"I am a member of the British Embassy, Senor Quesada. If you molest me,

I warn you of the consequences."

"I offered you my friendship and protection, and you declined them and

heaped abuse on me. You shall now feel my power."

I made no reply, and then the police official entered--a spare, dark,

ferrety-faced man, with quick-twinkling eyes.

"Senor Rubio, you have a warrant for the arrest of Senorita Sarita

Castelar, which I told you to hold back."

"I have, your Excellency."

"You will execute it at once. This is Senor Ferdinand Carbonnell, of

whom you know; hold him in custody; the warrant will be made out."

"I am a British subject, and a member of the British Embassy here in

Madrid. I shall resist arrest, and hold you responsible for any

consequences."

The official heard this with some dismay, and looked at the Minister for

an explanation.

"Do your duty, Senor Rubio. You have my orders."

"You must come with me, please," said the man, turning to me.

"I am armed," was my reply.

"Get the help you need," cried Quesada, sternly. "Do you hear?" he

added, angrily, for the man paused; but at this he went to the door and

opened it to call assistance. It was clear he had little stomach for

the task; and he appeared no less relieved than surprised when, instead

of his police assistants, Dolores Quesada entered. She was looking pale

and very agitated, but said to her brother quite firmly--

"I heard that Senor Rubio had been sent for; and before anything more is

done I have something to say to you. Dismiss him for a moment."

To my surprise, her brother sent him away.

"Have you ordered Senor Carbonnell's arrest?"

"This is no concern of yours, Dolores."

"Why have you two quarrelled?" she cried passionately, and turned to me

as if demanding an explanation. But I, of course, could give her none,

and said so.

"Sebastian, Senor Carbonnell shall not be arrested. I will not have it."

"Senor Carbonnell will scarcely wish to owe his safety to you," he

answered, with an ugly sneer. "Nor is this a matter in which I can

allow you to interfere. He has come here purely out of solicitude for

the safety of his friend--Sarita Castelar. You owe him thanks for what

he did for you, and, remembering that, I have tried to induce him to

leave the country. He will not, and as he remains he must take the

consequences. This is a State matter, and, I repeat, you must not

interfere. It can do you no good."

That there was a meaning under his words which she understood was clear

by her change of colour; but when he finished she turned upon him as if

to retort angrily. She checked herself, however, and instead asked me,

in a voice that only with a great effort she was able to keep firm and

cool: "Will you not give your word to leave Spain, Senor Carbonnell?"

"Certainly I cannot and will not, senorita," I replied, marvelling much

at the turn things were taking.

"You hear?" exclaimed Quesada, lifting his eyebrows. "You know why he

stays?"

This seemed to strike right at her heart. She sank into a chair and

bent her head on her hand.

"This step is necessary, Dolores. Be warned; and leave us," he

continued, in the same meaning tone.

"I do not care; I do not care. This shall not be. I swear it shall

not. I swear by the Holy Virgin it shall not." Her words came with

almost hysterical vehemence. "I claim his safety. Come what may, I

dare you to harm him, Sebastian. I dare you," and she sprang to her

feet again. "Senor, the way is open for you. I open it. No one shall

harm you. You are a man of honour, and will at least remember that----"

She stopped.

I felt vastly embarrassed; but, reflecting how much my liberty at that

moment might mean to Sarita, I turned towards the door to see if I was

really to get away.

"Stay," cried Quesada, hesitating in his fear of what I might do.

"You are free to go, senor," said the sister.

"I shall always remember to whom I owe my liberty; and unless I am

driven to act, by steps which your brother has threatened, the

recollection will guide my own attitude."

"No, you shall not go," cried Quesada again, this time angrily and

decidedly.

"Sebastian, if you dare to thwart me in this, I will go straight to the

Palace and say what--you know I can say."

"You are ruining us, Dolores."

Her reply was worthy of her brother for its directness. She went to the

door, and called in the police official.

"Senor Rubio, my brother wishes you to understand that he has made a

mistake in ordering this gentleman's arrest. He is a member of the

British Embassy. Permit me, senor," she said to me, holding the door for

me to pass.

"Your Excellency's wishes----?" asked Rubio.

The answer was a wave of the hand, and I was free. A minute later, I was

driving to my rooms, with a pretty picture of Dolores Quesada's anxious

face in my thoughts.

How long I should remain at liberty was another question, however.

Owing to the power she had over him, of a kind I could not guess,

Dolores had succeeded in defeating his purpose for the moment; but I

knew him too well not to think he would instantly set about repairing

that defeat by indirect means unknown to her. I was too dangerous to be

left at liberty, and he knew it; and probably his agents were even now

starting out in quest of me; for Spanish prisons tell no tales.

But I could at least make good use of my liberty, and my first step must

be to rush to my rooms and procure a sufficient supply of money for

emergencies. I had quite long enough start of the police for this, as a

single minute in the rooms would be enough.

Little did I think, however, of the news I should find awaiting me. A

telegram lay on the table, and a glance at its contents filled me with

surprise, concern, and pain. It was from the family solicitors in

London, and ran as follows:

"Deeply regret to announce Lord Glisfoyle thrown from horse this

afternoon and picked up dead. Neck broken. Can you return at once, or

wire instructions? Writing you fully by this post."

Poor Lascelles! And as I stood staring absently at the message my

thoughts went toppling head over heels down the staircase of the years

which he and I had climbed in so different a fashion.

We were scarcely a lucky race, we Carbonnells. My father had had a

struggle for many years, and had barely held the title long enough to

free himself, by the sweating process of rigid economy, from the smarts

and humiliations of the debts piled up in time of poverty. Now

Lascelles, in the very course of his humdrum, stay-at-home, commonplace

life, had been cut over with a side swing of the remorseless scythe; and

here was I, the very antithesis of my brother, flying for my liberty, my

life perhaps in danger, and at the very moment of becoming head of the

Carbonnells, known and likely to be officially labelled as that much

more fateful chief, Ferdinand Carbonnell, head of the most dangerous and

violent section of the Carlists. At the thought I started, and seemed to

catch a gleam of light. I was no longer mere Ferdinand Carbonnell--I

was Lord Glisfoyle. Would Quesada dare to pursue me now?

My answer was prompt. I crammed the telegram into my pocket, and rushed

to the drawer where my money was and thrust the whole of it into another

pocket, got my revolver and a good supply of cartridges, and hurried out

of the house. I might be a peer of Great Britain, but for the moment I

was a political fugitive in Madrid, and Sarita had yet to be saved.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*AT THE OPERA HOUSE*

Now that I was on foot I saw with much concern what a condition of

tumult and confusion prevailed in the capital. The streets were

thronged with people talking, gesticulating, shouting; some standing in

groups, others loitering casually, and others again rushing hither and

thither distractedly. The whole city everywhere appeared to have gone

almost wild with excitement. Every street corner had its own clamorous

group--men, women, and children mingled together, all manifesting the

same symptoms of turbulent unrest.

The police were everywhere. Bodies of troops, mounted and on foot,

patrolled the main thoroughfares and by-streets alike; and ever and

again I met small parties of police or troops, or both mixed, hurrying

along with one or two men or women in their midst. The sight of these

seemed to goad the populace almost to frenzy; and they broke into hoots,

groans, and indescribable cries, mingled with hisses, oaths, and loud

vehement execrations.

I had no need to ask the cause of this, for the key was on everyone's

tongue, and the cry was everywhere "Death to the Carlists!" Wherever I

turned, the air rang with it: in the quavering tone of old age, in the

shrill screech of violent women, in the strident cry of strong, angry

men, even in the puny squeal of children held up by their mothers to

clench their tiny fists and squeak a curse after the Carlist captives as

they were hustled by to gaol.

The tale ran with its usual exaggerations. "The young King had been

killed, and the Queen Mother--the Holy Virgin preserve her--lay dying

from the wounds received in trying to save her son." "No; the King was

not dead, only desperately wounded, lying at death's door, shot from a

distance by the cowards who had no stomach for an open attack." "No,

no; the King had been stolen and the Queen murdered, and the villains

had even dared to enter the Palace itself, and, thanks be to the Holy

Saints, had been caught by the guard and clapped into gaol, after having

been nearly pulled to pieces by the mob. Blessed be the Virgin, the

dear young King was safe." "All wrong, the King was safe, and had been

saved by the great Minister himself, Quesada;" and so on, through the

whole gamut of conjecturing ignorance.

All this I caught as I hurried at such speed as I could make to Madame

Chansette's house in search of Sarita. It was nothing to me on what lies

the people fed themselves or were fed by Quesada's agents. I knew that

his object was to raise such a popular clamour against the Carlists as

would strengthen his hands in the work of stamping them out, and the

Spanish temper was already running so high that more than one ugly rush

by the mob had been made at some of the batches of prisoners, as if to

tear them to pieces. And I trembled as I thought of Sarita in the hands

of these furious violence-mongers.

There was some risk for me, too, in going to Madame Chansette's. I had

heard the order given to Rubio to arrest Sarita at once, and if he and

his men were before me, I knew I might be arrested. The consideration

did not stop my going to the house, but it made me keep a very sharp eye

for the police agents.

The house wore its customary appearance, however, and when I knocked I

was admitted by the servant, whom I knew by sight. All seemed well so

far. I asked for both Madame Chansette and Sarita, and was shown at

once to the former. I found her weeping bitterly, prostrated, and

really ill with alarm.

"I am so thankful to see you. You have heard this awful news. Oh, what

shall we do, what shall we do?"

"Where is Sarita?" I asked in alarm, thinking the police had been before

me. "Is she safe? Quick, for God's sake tell me."

"What do you mean?"

"I know that she is in danger of arrest. Where is she? Please tell me

everything you can. I am on fire with impatience." But my impetuous

excitement so heightened her fear that, to my consternation, she grew

suddenly hysterical, and I cursed myself for a blockhead, as I looked

round for scent and restoratives and did my best to calm her.

"She must be saved, Ferdinand," she cried, helplessly, after precious

minutes had been wasted. "Oh, the rash, headstrong, wilful child!"

"If you will be calm and tell me where she is, I can save her," I said,

speaking now with forced deliberation and cool firmness. "But you must

be calm, and tell me everything."

"I will tell you. I did not know till to-day that she was actually

plotting to get the King stolen away by these fearful Carlists; and now

it has been done, and she has gone away somewhere, and I know it is to

take some other terrible steps. I can endure no more of it, Ferdinand.

I love Sarita; but I will not stay another day in Madrid."

"Do you know where she has gone?"

"No--yes--I don't know. All I know is this: She came to me about two

hours ago, her eyes shining and her face on fire with enthusiasm--you

know how she would look at such a time--and told me what she had been

planning, and that it had all succeeded, and that she had to go away for

an hour or two, but would be back as soon as she had finished the great

work there was to do. I was so frightened, I nearly fainted. I begged

her not to go--but you know her;" and Madame Chansette waved her hands

and shook her head feebly, the tears still running down her cheeks.

"Do you know where she has gone?" I repeated, driven almost to my wit's

end by the waste of time caused by her weakness.

"I can only make a guess, and I don't know whether I ought to have done

it;" an inconsequential enigma which made me bite my lip with vexation

in the effort to restrain my impatience. She glanced up helplessly once

or twice while hesitating.

"If you know nothing, I can do nothing," I said, as gently as I could,

to spur her.

"I am almost ashamed of it, but I had better say, perhaps; I don't know

what you will think. When Sarita came to me she had a letter in her

hand, and--and before I quite knew what I was doing, I--I had read it."

"Thank God you did, if it told you what we want to know."

"It was only a short note," she said, relieved by my reception of the

confession, but still apologetic. Oh, these good, honest, weak,

exasperating people! "It said something about all having gone well, and

that she was to go at once to----"

"Where?" I cried, on fire, as she paused again.

"I think it was 47, or 147, or 247--I know 47 was part of it--Calle de

Valencia. I am certain about the street, and she may be there. Do you

think it was very mean--what's that?" She broke off with a start, and

began to tremble violently, as a loud knocking at the house door and a

great pealing of the heavy bell came to our ears.

"For God's sake be calm for a minute. It is probably the police agents

come to arrest Sarita. Listen, please; listen carefully," I cried, as

she again showed signs of hysterics. "I will go at once and warn her

and save her. They must not know I have been here, and I can get out

through the garden, as I have before. Let them search the house, and

keep them here as long as you can, but don't breathe a word that I have

been here, or of Sarita. You can hear of me and of Sarita through Mrs.

Curwen, at the Hotel de l'Europe. Fasten the window behind me."

While speaking, I had opened the window, and, making a great effort, she

came and closed it and drew the curtains. I stood a moment in the

darkness, my ear pressed to the pane, and heard someone enter the room

and ask for Sarita.

"We are the police," said a strident, high-pitched voice, "and call upon

you to help us. She is here, we know, and must come with us. Here is

the warrant."

Whoever he was, he did his work in the coarsest and most brutal fashion;

and, waiting to hear no more, I slipped away noiselessly into the

darkness. My fear now was lest the place should be surrounded and my

own escape impeded.

There was a gate at the bottom opening on to a back road, but I knew of

a spot at the side where, with the help of a tree, I could easily scale

the wall, and deemed it prudent to avoid the gate. I climbed

cautiously, and, looking over, saw the way was clear, and jumped down.

But a man had been posted to watch close by, and, catching sight of me,

he sent up a cry and began to run in my direction. My knowledge of the

locality stood me in good stead, however, and, running at top speed, I

doubled through one or two back ways and passages, and shook off pursuit

sufficiently to be able to walk quietly into one of the crowded main

streets, where it would have been hopeless to look for me in the throng.

The excitement in the streets was even greater than before, but now

there was a perceptible change of tone. A note of thanksgiving and

rejoicing was mingled with the curses and groans and execrations; and I

soon gathered that doubts about the young King having been even hurt had

begun to spread among the people.

My way took me near the Opera House in the Plaza del Oriente, and then

there flashed into my recollection the appointment I had made to see

Mercy and Mrs. Curwen in their box. I recalled also the necessity of

informing Mercy of the news of poor Lascelles' death. When I should have

another chance I could not tell, and thus I resolved to snatch a minute,

urgent though my errand was, and go to them in the box.

I pushed my way through the crowd, which was now alternately cheering

with deafening enthusiasm, and turning to shout out curses and oaths

against the Carlists, and, entering the Opera House, asked for Box 9,

the number Mrs. Curwen had given me. They would not let me pass for a

moment, however, and I was taking out my card to send to Mrs. Curwen,

when the possible danger of having my name known at such a time struck

me, and I scribbled, "Lord Glisfoyle," on an envelope which I borrowed

at the bureau, and sent an attendant in with that. He returned and

asked me to follow him, and I walked through the magnificent corridors,

half ashamed of what looked like a grim, unnatural jest at such a

moment, and thinking how best to break my bad news to Mercy. Little did

I foresee, indeed, what a friend to me that simple precaution would

prove; but, then, how few of us can see even an inch beyond the

nose-tip!

I had nearly reached the box when a roar like thunder burst out suddenly

in the great building, which seemed almost to stagger with the sudden

shock and vibration; and, as the attendant opened the box door, the huge

volume came rushing out with a deafening crash. A wild passion of

excitement, uproar, and tumult possessed the vast audience, making such

a scene as I had never witnessed.

Men and women alike were beside themselves in the rush and delirium of

positively frantic enthusiasm: standing on the seats, and even rushing

over them, leaning on one another, pushing, straining, climbing one on

top of another's shoulders to gain a place from which they could catch a

sight of one central spot. Even the stage was filled with a

heterogeneous crowd of actors and actresses in costume, men and women in

evening dress, and scene shifters and employees of all kinds. And the

whole congested mass of people were yelling and shouting and cheering as

though they would burst their lungs, as they waved anything they could

lay hands on--hats, caps, handkerchiefs, shawls, opera cloaks, and on

the stage flags, anything and everything that would help them to vent

their overwhelming enthusiasm.

The centre of it all was the slight, slim, graceful, figure of the boy

King, standing in front of the Royal box, bowing and smiling his

acknowledgments; while just behind him, like the guardian angel of his

life, was the beautiful Queen Mother, with a light of love, pride, and

pleasure on her strong, clever face, as she gazed through eyes bright

and shining with rare tears at this marvellous demonstration of a

people's thanksgiving for her and their darling's safety.

Minutes passed, and the tumult gave no sign of abatement. If the great

hoarse volume of shouting seemed for a second to be dying down, it was

quickly noticed, and huge waves of swelling sound arose again, until it

appeared as if the very roof would be rent by the strain. Suddenly a

voice started the national air, and in a moment the leader of the

orchestra seized the occasion, the band took it up, and the whole

audience, led by the singers on the stage, sang it with such a chorus as

had never before been heard in Madrid.

Then came an unrehearsed and most dramatic scene. There was a movement

on the stage as the singing drew to a close, and the Archbishop of

Madrid came to the front and stood with uplifted hand for silence.

An intense hush, seeming almost weird after the raging tumult, fell upon

the place, and then his powerful voice was heard in half a dozen

impressive sentences of thanksgiving for the King's deliverance; and as

he finished amid sounds of sobbing from men and women, for all were now

so wrought upon that emotion reigned supreme alike over strong men and

weak women, a mighty Amen came from every corner of the house, with

another moment of weird silence as the great priest stood with bowed

head and hand-covered eyes in prayer.

Before the audience could gather strength for fresh shouting he stepped

back, the curtain came down on the stage, the band struck up some of the

music of the night's opera, and the great scene--a scene to be

remembered to one's dying day--was over; and the panting, exhausted,

half-hysterical audience struggled back into some semblance of order.

I had been as much carried away as anyone--the fever of contagion was in

truth resistless--and I had forgotten everything in the excitement, even

the time I was losing, so vital for the rescue of Sarita; and my

companions in the box were equally oblivious. But at the close of it

they turned to me.

"Why, they said it was Lascelles," said Mercy, who like Mrs. Curwen was

sitting back exhausted with the excitement, for they had been shouting

and waving as frantically as the rest.

"I used the name to get in," I replied, feebly: realising how

incongruous it would be to attempt to break my news to Mercy in the

midst of such a scene. "I didn't expect to get here, but as I chanced to

be near the place, I came in to say I hope to be at supper with you at

the Hotel de l'Opera."

"You're always coming to say you can't come, but will come some other

time," exclaimed Mrs. Curwen.

"I am sorry if I seem neglectful," was my apology,

"You look very serious, at any rate, and as if this mysterious business

was a very doleful one."

"When I am able to explain it all to you, you will say I am not serious

without cause."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I have no right to any explanation, but Mercy has," she answered.

"Don't mind me, Nand," said Mercy quickly. "I know it must be serious."

"I have some news for you, Mercy, but I can't tell you now. I must go."

I was standing almost in the front of the box, between the two, and Mrs.

Curwen said--

"Did you ever see such a scene? What a love that boy King is! I should

like to kiss him."

I glanced then across at the Royal box, and to my discomfiture saw that

his little Majesty was taking my advice, and, with an opera glass, was

earnestly searching the audience. As I looked across, the glass was

full upon our box. He started, lowered the glass, and looked eagerly at

me. Then he turned to the Queen impetuously, said something to her, and

handed her the glass; and she in her turn looked across the house at me.

He had recognised me, and I dare not stay another minute, for fear he

should send to enquire for me. I turned to Mayhew, who was sitting by

Mrs. Curwen.

"I want to speak to you, Silas. Come with me;" and, murmuring an excuse

to the widow, we went out.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, there's a devil of a mess, and I'm in it up to the neck, and I

want you to help me. I've got a nasty job for you. I've had a telegram

from London just now to say that my brother is dead. He was thrown from

his horse this afternoon. Here's the wire."

"Then that name you sent in----" he began.

"I didn't use it because of that. But my own name has got mixed up with

this infernal Carlist business, and I didn't dare send it in. Ferdinand

Carbonnell may be proscribed at any moment, and I've scraped my shoulder

already once this evening against a prison door. What I want you to do

is to break this news of poor Lascelles' death as best you can to my

sister, as soon as you get a chance, and just make them both understand

that they're to know nothing of any Ferdinand Carbonnell. If I've been

recognised here, as I think I have, and anyone comes questioning, just

say I'm Lord Glisfoyle, and if they press for any address give them the

Hotel de l'Opera."

"I don't quite understand. Why----"

"That's all right; I can't spare another second," and I hurried off,

leaving him staring after me with the telegram in his hand, the very

picture of bewilderment.

I walked quickly along the corridor, left the building, and turned at a

quick speed in the direction of the Calle de Valencia, in search of

Sarita. And when I found how much time I had lost through my visit to

the Opera, I was troubled with serious misgivings.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*A CARLIST GATHERING*

The Calle de Valencia was a sufficiently important street to be well

known, and I had no difficulty in finding it. It had a prosperous look;

the houses were for the most part of a good size; and their condition

and appearance suggested that the occupants were of the well-to-do

class.

Madame Chansette had told me 47 was part of the number of the house I

sought, and one of the first I saw being 147, I determined to try that

first. It was a doctor's house--Dr. Pascual Vedia, and when I rang the

bell a maid-servant opened the door, and showed me into a consulting

room.

My nerves had been so wrought upon by the events of the day, the scene

at the Opera, my fears for Sarita, and now by the extraordinary nature

of my present mission, that this commonplace conventional reception

seemed quite a ridiculous anti-climax. Despite all my anxiety I caught

myself smiling when I was left alone.

"What an ass I am," I exclaimed; "as if I was to expect the long black

conspirators' cloaks, the sharp daggers, slouched hats of picture books!

This may very well be the place after all." My meditations were broken

by the entrance of the doctor, a man of some forty years of age, with

the most approved medical manner. A comfortable-looking person in

complete keeping with his conventional surroundings, who smiled

encouragingly while he looked me over with a professional eye. If he

was a dangerous Carlist, danger and Carlism certainly appeared to agree

with him.

"You wish to consult me, senor? My servant did not bring me your name."

His manner was easy and insinuating.

"I have not called to consult you, but wish to see the Senorita

Castelar, who is, I believe, here. I have grave and urgent news for

her."

"I am afraid there is some mistake. My name is Pascual Vedia. I am a

physician." It struck me he said this to look at me and gain time to

think. There was just a second of hesitation; and then he added: "May I

ask your name?"

"My name is of no importance if the senorita is not here. But the news

I bring is of the utmost gravity--to her and others," and I emphasised

the words with a glance of meaning. This time the pause before he

replied was longer; then he answered--

"My wife has a few friends this evening, but the senorita is not here."

"You know her?" I asked quickly.

"Really, as I have not the pleasure of knowing your name----" and he

left the sentence unfinished, with an uplifting of the hands. He was

fencing with me, that was unmistakable. And, more than that, he was

suspicious. When I saw that, the means of at once testing and reassuring

him occurred to me. I looked him straight in the eyes, and very

deliberately repeated the formula I had learned from Vidal de Pelayo.

"Counting all renegades lovers of Satan, by the grace of God."

"By the grace of God," he repeated instantly with deep earnestness, and

gave me his hand. His manner underwent a remarkable change; his easy,

matter-of-fact, medical practitioner air dropped like a mask, and his

looks, eyes, and voice were charged with enthusiasm.

"I could not know, of course," he said, in explanation. "The senorita is

here, but on the point of leaving. Will you come to her with me? Or

shall I bring her here? You are from Saragossa--or, better, from

Huesca? And all is well, I hope. We have been waiting for this."

His reply showed me there would be no danger of identification if I went

with him, since it was clear that none of the men whom I had outwitted

that afternoon had yet returned with the news. I was doubtful,

moreover, whether Sarita would come to me without hearing my name, while

if I sent it to her she might raise delay or difficulty.

I decided to go with him therefore, and he led me to a drawing-room at

the back of the house where there were some dozen people. The eyes of

all were turned upon us as the door opened, and the doctor, having

misinterpreted my silence, exclaimed joyously--

"News at last from Saragossa!"

The words were not off his tongue before Sarita, who was sitting close

to the door, jumped to her feet, looked at me in the deepest

consternation, and, turning pale to the lips in the greatness of her

surprise, faced me with a look of such unmistakable fear and dismay that

it brought gathering clouds of suspicion to the faces of many of those

present.

"You here!" she said at length, in a tone that was scarcely more than a

whisper.

I paused for one supreme moment of doubt, while I glanced at the faces

bent anxiously and now sternly upon me, and then answered in a firm

voice--

"Where should Ferdinand Carbonnell be at the crisis of peril such as

this, if not here?" and I looked at her as though daring her to betray

the secret of the double meaning of my words.

The impression created by the announcement of my name was unmistakable.

A murmur of astonishment passed from lip to lip, while glances were

travelling backwards and forwards from me to Sarita, who stood battling

with her agitation.

I could understand her trouble well enough. She had either to denounce

me as an impostor and a traitor to the cause, and with probable

consequences to me from which would shrink with fear; or she had to

cover and confirm the fraud and vouch for my truth to her companions.

To distract attention from her while she made her decision, I went on

after a short pause, speaking deliberately and incisively, wishing to

create the deepest impression possible--

"Only such an emergency as this could have induced me to throw aside my

incognito and come to you openly. I bring you the worst possible news.

Everything has failed; and the cause never stood in higher peril than at

this present moment, when the success we have striven, worked, and

fought for seemed actually in our grasp--seemed?--nay, was actually in

our grasp. The great event of to-day, so cunningly planned, so patiently

waited for, was successful. The young Pretender was captured by our

comrades, and was actually in their hands; I myself was present--as I

strive to be everywhere in the moment of crisis--and saw it done. They

carried him away, and all seemed to have gone gloriously, when just

before the village of Podrida was reached, by means which have yet to be

discovered, the whole scheme was wrecked; our comrades were struck down,

overborne probably, after fighting valiantly, by a vastly superior

force." (I reckoned that this was the account of the rescue the men

would be likely to bring back.) "The young Pretender was snatched from

them and brought back to the capital. I returned when I knew of it, and

I come now hot foot from the Opera, where he has just made a public

appearance, amid the cheers of those sycophants among the people who

persist in upholding his wrongful claim to Our Master's throne."

I did not look once at Sarita while delivering this harangue, and by the

time I had reached that point the news I brought had not only convinced

everyone of my sincerity, but had set them quaking on the score of their

own safety.

"You saw this with your own eyes?" exclaimed the doctor, excitedly.

"Holy Mother of God, what will it mean?"

"I saw it, and much more. I was this evening closeted in the house of

the master fiend to whose devilment the wrecking of everything may well

be due--the Minister, Sebastian Quesada. I heard there the order given

for my own arrest. I saw the warrant for the arrest of Senorita

Castelar, and heard the order for its instant execution given to his

police spy, Rubio, and I know that lists upon lists of our friends' and

comrades' names have been handed to the police with orders for their

immediate arrest. While you have been sitting here in your snug council

of plan-making and scheming"--I threw a good slice of contempt into the

reference, for it is rarely ill to be a little contemptuous towards

those whom you are seeking to impress and convince--"the streets without

are resounding under the tread of armed men, broken by the wailing cries

of hundreds of our brave friends, men and women martyrs alike, who are

being hustled to gaol amid the curses and howls of the passion-ridden

mob. Quesada's avowed policy is now to use this failed attempt of ours

to stamp our cause under his feet, and to crush it so utterly that no

vestige of strength remains. His plans have been maturing for

weeks"--here again I glanced at Sarita--"and he has been deliberately

working towards this end. For this he pretended to give us aid--the aid

of a traitor--that by it he might find the means to further his own end.

And that end was the doubly cunning one, to use us Carlists to overthrow

the Monarchy, and then seize on our act as the pretext for crushing us

into impotence."

The men present broke into bitter imprecations of Quesada, and for a

time much confusion prevailed, as the party discussed the momentous

news. I turned then to Sarita, by whose side the doctor was standing.

"What do you advise, senor?" he asked me anxiously.

"There is but one course, so far as we in Madrid are concerned. We

cannot hope to resist. The present plans have failed hopelessly, and

the one chance is to do what has had to be done before--bow to the

tempest, and wait until it has passed. By this time hundreds of

Carlists are crowding the gaols to overflowing, and to-morrow every

known or suspected Carlist in the capital will be under lock and key,

guarded by Quesada's agents. The one hope of safety for those who

cannot clear themselves is in flight. Meanwhile every compromising

document and paper should be destroyed or burned."

The panic was complete, and already most of those present were preparing

to leave.

"Why did you venture here?" asked Sarita, as the doctor was called away.

"What right had you to come and act this part and force me to play the

traitor by keeping silence?"

"I came to save you; and my coming will have been in vain if you do not

instantly leave the house with me. Every word I said of these doings is

true, and it is true also that Quesada has denounced me as Ferdinand

Carbonnell, the Carlist leader, and ordered my arrest in that character.

I think I can save you yet, if you will fly at once."

"I will not go with you. I am not a coward."

"Then we will stay together and wait for the police to come to us."

"You must not stay. You shall not," she cried, quickly.

"I shall not leave you again."

"But you have no right here. You are not of us, and have no right to

share our dangers. You shall not stay. I will tell them here that you

are not one of us."

"They are too intent on saving themselves to bother about the nice

little chain of circumstances which has linked my name to the cause.

But as you will. I came to save you, and if I can't do that I don't

care what happens. I left Madame Chansette overwhelmed with distress,

and I only escaped from the house as the police agents entered it in

search of you. I heard Quesada himself give the order for your

immediate arrest. You must come. Quesada has only duped you as he has

duped hundreds before you. And, mark you, when he gave that order, and

when he was busy packing the gaols with Carlists, he believed that the

King had actually been abducted. I know that; for I had it from his own

lips. Surely you see his double cunning now."

"How do you know all you have told us?"

"I cannot tell you now; but I know it, and more. I believe, too, that I

can bring this home to him. Many strange things have happened since I

saw you yesterday, and with your help I can drag him down and can expose

his treachery to the King as well as to you all. If you will not save

yourself because I ask you, will you do it to help in punishing him?"

"I am not a coward to fly," she answered; but I could see that I had

touched her. "I will denounce him."

"From where? From the inside of one of his prisons? As what? As a

well-known leader of the Carlists? Think, Sarita, and for God's sake

think quickly, for every minute may make your peril greater; and not

yours only, but mine as well. What heed would be paid to anything a

Carlist might say against him at such a moment?"

"I will come," she cried then, impetuously; and in a minute we had

explained our intention to those who still remained, and left the house.

"Where are you going?" asked Sarita, when we reached the street.

"For to-night to the Hotel de l'Opera, where my sister is." I explained

the position there, and then the change my brother's death had caused,

and that I was no longer to be known as Ferdinand Carbonnell, but as

Lord Glisfoyle; that the next day our whole party would leave Madrid,

and that she and Madame Chansette would leave with us. "You can stay if

you please in Paris, or anywhere out of Spain, and for the purpose of

the escape we must decide in what character you will travel. That's as

far as I've got with our plans, but no one will look for you in Mrs.

Curwen's rooms at the hotel."

"I will not promise to leave Madrid," she said, firmly.

"Just as you please. No doubt Quesada can find a cell for each of us if

we remain," I returned, pointedly. "If you stay, I stay, Sarita: on that

I take my oath."

Without waiting for a reply, I told her rapidly so much of what had

occurred since I had seen her as I deemed necessary: the quarrel with

Livenza, the interview with Quesada, my discovery of his connivance in

the Carlist plot, and that I had faced him with it, and then the scene

at Quesada's house that evening; and I was at great pains to make it as

clear as I could that all the Minister's plans were laid well in advance

to deal this overwhelming blow at the Carlists, when the King had once

been put away.

Told as the story was now, with all the evidence of police activity in

full sight, and broken by more than one pause, as we had to stand aside

to avoid the rush of the howling mob as some party of prisoners was

dragged past us, it carried conviction.

"This is no chance work of an hour, Sarita. The plans have been ready

and the preparations made for days past, merely waiting the signal. The

very warrants under which these men and women here are being imprisoned

have been lying ready signed in the pigeon-holes of Quesada's office,

and the lists have been made out with scrupulous deliberation and

method. This was the reception he had in readiness for the friends by

whose deed he meant to climb. Success or failure was all one to him.

If the plot had succeeded, he would have crushed you Carlists, to leave

no one in his path; it has failed, and he can still use it to

consolidate his power and strengthen his influence as a jealous Minister

of the King. His treachery is the only true thing in him."

As we drew nearer the heart of the city, the throng in the streets

increased, and the noise and din of the clamour were incessant.

Something of the infection of the wonderful enthusiasm I had witnessed

in the Opera had spread to the streets. It was known that the young

King was unhurt, and had appeared there; and the vast crowds were giving

tongue to their feelings in every key of frantic enthusiasm, vented now

in roystering, rollicking shouts of loyalty, and again in fierce, wild

curses upon the Carlists and all traitors. A scene to try the strongest

nerves; and I was not surprised that even Sarita's courage began to

fail, and she clung to my arm in apprehension.

There was cause indeed, for the mob was growing dangerous, and more than

one ugly incident occurred close by us. The mere cry of "Carlist!"

raised against either man or woman, was enough to bring the mob howling

round like wolves scenting prey. And, as in all mobs, there were not

wanting those who from motives of robbery or personal spite were ready

to raise the cry, and so set light to the dangerous fires of violence.

Thus on one occasion we were standing back from the on-pressing crowd as

a couple of prisoners were being taken by, when the cry of "Carlist

spies!" was raised against a man and woman. It was started in the

shrill tone of an old tatterdemalion hag who had begged an alms and had

been refused. In an instant the two found themselves surrounded by a

cursing, shouting, shrieking throng, their angry faces thrust forward in

fierce denunciation, threateningly close to the pallid, fear-set

features of the couple, and a hundred outstretched hands were quivering

with the menace of violence. Someone gave the man a push from behind,

and in a trice the two were separated, the man pulled, thrust, hustled,

and whirled away like a leaf on the tempest of passionate ruthlessness,

amid a war of oaths and curses; while by a chance the woman, forgotten

in the instant of violence, drifted to us, and we let her creep in

behind us and hide till the storm had passed.

A cry of "Carlist!" from below us soon carried the mob in search of the

fresh victims, and we stood a minute, Sarita whispering to the woman to

gather courage, as the danger was passed. And while we waited, the man

who had been with her came back, helped by some friend who had found him

battered, bruised, bleeding from a dozen hurts, and with the remnants of

his clothing hanging on him in rags.

Sarita would have stayed to help the unfortunate pair, but the danger of

the streets was too great, and I led her away.

The scene was repeated more than once, with variations mainly in the

degree of violence used by the mob. More than once, too, we only just

escaped finding ourselves in the midst of one of the innumerable street

fights that occurred, where some man against whom the cry had been

raised had friends, and, rallying them, shouted a counter charge against

his accusers, and followed it up with an attack, in which knives were

drawn freely on both sides and blood spilt.

Never was I more thankful in my life than when at length we reached the

doors of the hotel, to which at last I had literally to force and fight

my way through the mob still surging in the neighbourhood of the Opera

House, and swarming all over the plaza where the hotel stood.

No sooner were we safe, however, and I stood a moment in the spacious

hall of the hotel to recover my breath, than a fresh difficulty of a

quite different character occurred to me. How should I explain matters

in regard to Sarita to Mrs. Curwen and Mercy? I had scarcely mentioned

her name to either of them; they knew nothing, of course, of the weird

undercurrent of events; and yet here was I turning up with her at eleven

o'clock at night, in defiance of all the conventionalities, and as the

climax of a series of acts which must have appeared to them as the very

type of eccentricity.

Besides, there was Mrs. Curwen's own undercurrent motive for her

presence in Madrid.

*CHAPTER XX*

*AT THE HOTEL DE L'OPERA*

It is, of course, a very simple thing to laugh at the conventions, and

to declare that it would be preposterous to give the least thought to

them in the face of the really serious pass to which matters had come.

I was trying to do that all the way to Mrs. Curwen's room as we followed

the waiter, to whom I had given my name as Lord Glisfoyle.

But, as a matter of fact, I felt more nervous and uncomfortable at

having to subject Sarita to the sharp inquisitive fire of the widow's

eyes, than if I had been going to face a roomful of armed men. My

companion saw my embarrassment.

"You are anxious how your sister will receive me?" she whispered with a

quick discernment.

"My sister, Mercy, is one of the best, staunchest little souls in the

world."

"Ah, then it is this friend of hers?"

"It will be all right," I answered evasively; and as the waiter threw

the door open and announced me at that moment, there was no time to say

any more. Our entrance could scarcely have been at a more inopportune

moment. My sister had taken the news of Lascelles' death very badly,

and was lying on a sofa overcome by grief. Mrs. Curwen was kneeling by

her with scent and smelling salts, and Mayhew was standing near in the

helpless attitude usual with men under such circumstances.

Mrs. Curwen did not get up or look round for a moment, but an

exclamation from Mayhew, who recognised Sarita and bowed to her, and

then stared at her with an expression of bewilderment, drew the widow's

attention.

"Mercy is,"--she began in a tone of warning but glancing round, then

seeing I was not alone, and that my companion was an exceedingly lovely

girl, she stopped, jumped up and looked at Sarita with eyes and face

that appeared to harden rapidly from surprised confusion to indignant

anger. She seemed instinctively to divine enough of the case between

Sarita and myself to make her exceedingly uneasy and angry; and she was

never in the habit of concealing her feelings.

"I have brought my cousin, Senorita Castelar, who is at this moment in

deep trouble, Mrs. Curwen, to ask you and Mercy to help her." I must

admit Sarita did not wear the appearance of trouble to bear out my

words. She met Mrs. Curwen's most sarcastic look with one of almost

queenly hostility, held her head high and had a light in her flashing

eyes which augured ill for peace.

"Any friend of yours is welcome, of course,"--oh, the sting of that "of

course," and the wicked bow that accompanied it--"but the hour is very

late and unfortunately Mercy is prostrated with grief at the terrible

news which you left to Mr. Mayhew to tell us. Will you be seated,

senorita?" Mayhew glanced across at me, shrugged his shoulders very

slightly, and then like, a good fellow plunged in to the rescue.

"Thank God, you are safe, senorita," he said, coming forward. "You must

have had an awful experience in the streets to-night. They are almost

impassable for the frantic excitement of the mob. You will not have

forgotten me, I hope. I have had the pleasure of meeting you more than

once; the last time I think was at the French Embassy ball. No? Well,

it must have been at some other, for I know that we danced together. My

name is Mayhew. I'm at the British Embassy, you know--at least you

would know if my good friend Ferd--Lord Glisfoyle, I mean, hadn't got

his head too high in the clouds just now to tell you who I am."

His glib chatter was a wonderful relief and broke the exceedingly

awkward strain at the moment when everything seemed to spell crisis; and

he bustled about and went on chattering in an unconcerned and

irrepressible manner, for all the world as though there was no

electricity in the air, and the visit at such an hour and under such

circumstances was just the most usual thing in the world.

Under cover of this fusillade of small talk I crossed to Mercy's side

and bent over and kissed her.

"Mercy, dear, I am in sore trouble and perplexity. If you can make an

effort and rally now and help me, you will do me the greatest favour in

the world. Both Sarita Castelar--who is your cousin--and I are in

imminent danger of being arrested and sent to gaol, and I want your

woman's wit, and that of our good friend here--to get us out of it.

Mrs. Curwen, you have often declared your friendship for me, will you

show it now in this?"

I knew my sister well enough to be sure that such an appeal would be the

finest tonic in the world, and that it would stir up every scrap of

pluck in her to face the emergency. And I was right. She pulled

herself together, and kissing me, sat up.

"This awful news about Lascelles----" she began.

"You must put the thought of it away for the present, Mercy, and face

the danger here," I interposed, earnestly. "There is no time for the

indulgence of grief."

Mrs. Curwen had stood in silence during the short by-scene with Mercy,

and the catchy breathing, slightly paled cheek, firmly pressed lip, and

quick glances flashed from me to Sarita, told me she was moved. She

bent forward as Mercy sat up in answer to my appeal, laid a hand on my

arm and looked into my face with more earnestness and feeling than I had

ever known her display, as she asked--

"What is this girl to you, Ferdinand?" and her eyes searched mine keenly

for the truth.

"As I live, she is more to me than life itself," I answered in a low

whisper that trembled with suppressed passion.

At the reply, she drew her hand hastily from my arm, closed her eyes,

bit her lip as she drew one deep breath, and clenched her hands in a

moment of intense agitation. But in the moment she had herself in hand

again, a smile broke the set pallor of her face, she gave me her hand.

"Then, of course, we'll do all we can. What queer, clumsy creatures you

men are sometimes. Why on earth didn't you tell us before?" and like

the plucky little soul she was, the smile quickened into a rallying

laugh.

I had no words ready for a reply. I was too much moved; and I held out

my hand in silence and pressed hers. Mercy had been scarcely less moved

by my news, and getting up now, put her arms round her friend's waist

and kissed her.

"What a fuss you two make about a trifle," said the widow, shrugging her

shoulders. "Come, Mercy, we must do something, instead of chattering

here; and let poor Mr. Mayhew off duty. I hope he isn't as awfully

uncomfortable as he looks;" and she and Mercy crossed to Sarita.

"Lord Glisfoyle wants you a minute, Mr. Mayhew," she said, and then

earnestly to Sarita, "My dear, let me call you that, I want to apologise

to you, but I didn't know. Will you forgive me? Lord Glisfoyle is a

very dear friend of mine--and you must be too."

"I didn't know that I had a cousin in Madrid," chimed in Mercy, kissing

Sarita. "And you in such trouble too." And at that point Mayhew and I

went out of the room on his suggestion, that if we left the three

together while we smoked a cigarette, we should find them thick friends

by the time we returned.

"This is a ticklish touch-and-go thing, Ferdinand," he said, as we

lighted our cigarettes in the corridor.

"My dear Silas, it's a devil of a job, and how to get out----"

"I meant Mrs. Curwen," he said, drily. "You didn't tell me she'd ever

cared for you; and to bring your cousin,"--with a distinct

emphasis--"here was a bit risky, wasn't it? But I must say you have a

devil of a way with you. I couldn't have done it."

"My dear fellow, Mrs. Curwen is a shrewd, level-headed, clever

commonsense little woman, who is not of the type you seem to think. Her

liking for me is much more platonic than romantic, and--well, I'm

thundering glad it's all right. But I couldn't have done anything else

if I'd wished to, for I had nowhere else to go. And look here, you

behaved like a brick and just saved the situation. And now listen while

I tell you something of the mess we're in." I told him pretty well

everything, except my rescue of the young King, as shortly as I could,

and very grave it made him look.

"You're in deep, sure enough," he said when I finished. "But there's a

way out, and if I were you I should take it. I suppose that as your

brother's dead you won't stay on at the Embassy here; well, I should go

to the chief, tell him pretty well the whole show and just stop at the

Embassy until you can get safely away. Quesada can't touch you, of

course; and even he won't dare to try any games when he learns through

official channels, of course, that the chief knows the facts. But you

must give up the fight with him. You can't beat him. No one can."

"And Senorita Castelar?"

"I should get that plucky little widow-woman and your sister to smuggle

her out of the country. It's no good blinking things, and there's no

doubt that the Carlists will have a mighty bad time for a while; while

those who took an active part in the abduction business have--well,

they've put their heads in a noose, and that's the truth. It's a life

and death matter for some of them: and you say she was a sort of

leader?"

"Your plan won't do, Silas. We must get something better. I can't make

up my mind to separate from her."

"Then you'll double the danger for you both. Quesada will have a double

trail to follow, and he's a sleuth-hound at the game."

"I shall not leave her," I said, firmly. "I couldn't. I have still

something in reserve for Quesada if need be, and I won't give in. Oh,

by the way, did any one come to the box to-night?"

"Yes, of course, they did. I'd forgotten it in this hubbub. It was

somebody from the royal box too, for you to go there. What on earth

does that mean?"

"I think there was some mistake or other. What message did you send?"

"That you had left the house; and when they asked for your address in

Madrid, I gave them this hotel, as you said. Are there any more

mysteries about, Ferdinand?"

Mercy came out then in search of us and saved me from replying, and as

we were entering the room she kept me back a moment and pressed my arm

as she looked up and whispered--

"I like her, Nand, and she _is_ beautiful. And it's all right now, but

we had such trouble. She's as proud as Lucifer, and we could do nothing

with her until Angela--hasn't she behaved splendidly?--kept declaring

that if she didn't do what we wanted she'd bring you into all kinds of

trouble. For herself, I believe she'd go to the stake with a smile on

her face. But she loves you, Nand, and that settled things. You'll see

a change in her."

"You're a true little chum, Mercy," I said, kissing her for her news.

She was right; there was a change. Sarita was dressed in sober black,

with white cuffs and collar, her glorious hair done with quite severe

plainness; a costume that seemed a sort of compromise between that of a

companion and superior maid. But no change could hide her looks, and

the very plainness of her dress enhanced her beauty, at least in my

eyes.

"I am the victim of circumstances, and of these two good souls'

solicitude for your safety," she said to me.

"And what does it all mean?" I asked.

"We start for Paris to-morrow," replied Mrs. Curwen; "and while you

gentlemen have been smoking and talking, I have been fortunate enough to

secure the services of a new companion, whose name to the world is

Juanita Sanchez. You will remember that. Mr. Mayhew, who can be trusted

to see to any business arrangements, will, I know, kindly arrange for me

to-morrow to have a special train through to Paris--I am too frightened

by these Madrid mobs to remain longer--and will get passports for Mercy

and myself and Juanita; and if Lord Glisfoyle joins us, so much the

better. And now as I am desperately hungry let us have supper."

It was a strange feast, and had it not been for Mayhew's ever ready

glibness of speech, it would have been an embarrassing business. But he

opened a vein of anecdotal chatter, and Mrs. Curwen being very excited,

soon began to keep up her end, so that gradually the feeling of

strangeness wore away and we came to the discussion of our plans. There

is no need to dwell upon them further, for they were all fated to be

suddenly checkmated.

We had finished the supper; and in the lull that followed, Mayhew and I,

at Mrs. Curwen's request, lighted cigarettes, and Mercy and Sarita

having risen from the table, stood talking together at the far end of

the room when a waiter came in, and approaching Mrs. Curwen, said in a

very apologetic tone--

"I am sorry to disturb you, madam, but someone desires to see you--in

point of fact, a police agent." As he spoke, we heard the sound of men

moving in the corridor and a whispered word of command; and the next

moment the police agent was in the room.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Mrs. Curwen, indignantly, in

English, and the official, not understanding her words but replying to

her gestures, bowed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Permit me to interpret," said Mayhew, readily, and he put the question

in Spanish; and meanwhile the man's eyes were all over the room,

settling finally on me.

"My instructions are to come here--the rooms of Senora Curwen, Hotel de

l'Opera--" this he read from his instructions--"in search of the

Carlist, Ferdinand Carbonnell."

Mayhew made a show of interpreting this to Mrs. Curwen, and jumbled in a

half-coherent caution that he knew the man understood English, so that

we must look out.

"Tell him he has made a mistake; and you," she said to the waiter, "go

and fetch the manager of the Hotel. I will not stand this kind of

treatment."

"In the presence of the police we are powerless, madam," replied the

waiter. "The manager is away, I am acting in his place."

Meanwhile Mercy had turned so pale that I was afraid the official would

notice it. Then Mayhew answered--

"You are under a grave mistake. This lady is an English visitor to

Madrid, has been here only two or three days, knows nothing of any

Carlists, and desires you to leave her rooms."

"There is no mistake. That is Ferdinand Carbonnell; or at least he

answers to the description well enough for me, and he must accompany

me," and he came and stood by my chair.

"I don't know what you're driving at," I said, thinking it time to take

a hand on my own account. "If you want me to go anywhere with you, I've

no particular objection. But you'll find yourself in a mess if you

carry this blunder, or fooling, or whatever it is, any further."

"You speak excellent Spanish, senor. May I ask your name?"

"Is that a crime?" I asked with a sneer, while Mayhew laughed

unconstrainedly and most naturally. "If you want to know who I am--I'm

an Englishman, Lord Glisfoyle; and if you want anyone to prove it, we'll

go and knock up the English Ambassador, and ask him what he thinks of

this kind of outrage. I say it's monstrous."

"Lord Glisfoyle," he returned, stumbling over the pronunciation. He was

obviously impressed by my coolness and the little touch of indignation.

He took out a paper and scanned it closely. "You answer in every

particular to Ferdinand Carbonnell's description. These are anxious

times, senor, and I have only my duty to do," he added apologetically.

"I can't help that," said I, quietly. "If you want to arrest me because

I speak Spanish well and look like somebody else, you must have a queer

set of laws here in Madrid. Had we better knock the Ambassador up, for

the enlightenment of the gentleman?" I asked Mayhew.

"Nonsense," he said, with another laugh. "The thing's absurd. Here,

you probably know me--or some of your men will. My name is Silas

Mayhew, of the British Embassy. I tell you, this is Lord Glisfoyle.

Don't get yourself into trouble and cause no end of complications by

carrying this thing any further."

"May I ask the names of all present?" was the reply, for he was by no

means satisfied yet.

"Of course you may. I've told you this is Mrs. Curwen," said Mayhew,

coolly. "That is Lord Glisfoyle's sister, and that Mrs. Curwen's

companion--maid, Juanita Sanchez." He did it excellently, as though the

matter were the merest form. The official was puzzled, and stood

pulling his beard in indecision. But he scarcely glanced at the two

girls, vastly to my relief. If Sarita was safe, I cared little about

myself.

"Excuse me a moment," he said, and going to the door he spoke to one of

his men who came back to the room with him.

"You are Ferdinand Carbonnell, we are sure," he said then, and to my

consternation he was holding a photograph in his hand. I remembered

then that Quesada had obtained one from me.

"There is no room for doubt," and he showed it to Mayhew.

I saw Sarita start at this, while Mercy had to cling hold to her and be

helped to a chair.

"I'll go with you, of course," I said. "But I shall hold you

responsible for this. My sister is not well, and your clumsy blunder

has made her positively ill. It's all right, Mercy," I said, going over

to them, and taking occasion to whisper to Sarita, "I shall be perfectly

safe if you'll only get away. They can do nothing to me, and by

to-morrow they'll have a broadside from the Embassy that'll make them

shake in their shoes. But promise to leave Madrid with Mrs. Curwen."

"Should I run away and leave you in danger?" she said.

"I can't stop to argue, but if you care for me and my safety, you'll do

what I ask. I'm ready," I said aloud. "Just let me see your

documents."

He showed me an order signed by Quesada himself, the alleged offence

being high treason; and I read it aloud in order that Sarita should hear

it, and I was shaking hands with Mrs. Curwen preparatory to leaving when

there came another interruption.

Two officers in very elaborate uniforms were ushered in by a waiter,

with every sign of extreme deference. They were complete strangers to

me, and my heart leapt into my mouth in fear that it boded mischief to

Sarita.

"Pray pardon me, madam," said one of them in English to Mrs. Curwen. "I

hope we are not intruding; but we come on a mission of the highest

importance. I was told Lord Glisfoyle was your guest, and I see"--this

with a most courteous bow to me--"I was not misinformed."

"I am Lord Glisfoyle, but I do not recall the pleasure of having seen

you before."

"That is my loss, sir," and he bowed again. "I know you, however, by

sight, having seen you to-night in Mrs. Curwen's box at the Opera, and

afterwards I learnt from this gentleman, Mr. Mayhew, of your Embassy,

that you were staying here. I am Colonel Vasca, this is Colonel

Damara," and we all bowed again like willows in a breeze. "We come from

the King, and bring His Majesty's earnest request that you will wait

upon him at the Palace at eleven o'clock to-morrow, when he desires to

present you to Her Majesty the Queen Mother, who adds her request to His

Majesty's."

The amazement of everyone in the room was complete, while the police

official was lost in bewilderment. I think I rather enjoyed the

situation, and answered very gravely--

"Their Majesty's desires would have been commands, but unfortunately I

shall be prevented. This person, a police agent, has arrested me, so

that instead of being in His Majesty's Palace I shall be in one of His

Majesty's prisons, I presume. Perhaps you will be good enough to

explain the cause of my absence."

The seriousness of my manner and the incongruity of the reply turned the

thing in a moment to broad farce; with results which can be easily

understood.

The King's messengers routed the Quesada agent in half a dozen words,

and sent him and his men packing about their business. Then they made

me a thousand profuse, most elaborate, and somewhat tedious apologies,

and took their leave with signs of respect for me that were almost

overpowering.

And no sooner were they gone than the other side of the incident was put

before me very pungently by Sarita, who asked with a very sharp and

searching glance--

"How comes the young King to be so friendly with you, Ferdinand, and

apparently under so great an obligation?"

The question showed that even a king's favour may not be without its

embarrassments; for in truth I did not know how to answer.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*SARITA'S FLIGHT*

Mrs. Curwen, Mercy and Mayhew, were almost as keenly interested as

Sarita herself in the question she had asked with such vehemence, and

thus my hesitation in answering was the more noticeable. Their motives

were, of course, very different from hers, and I could have put them off

with some light evasion; but with Sarita that would probably be both

useless and dangerous; and her suspicion deepened with every second of

my hesitation.

It was all but impossible for me to tell her the truth--that I had

thwarted the long cherished plot and saved the young King. I could only

tell her that when I was in a position to convince her that Quesada's

policy was, as I had described it, to use the Carlist plot and then

crush the plotters.

Moreover, the position, so far as I myself was concerned, had been

completely changed by the death of my brother. Up till that moment I

had been a soldier of fortune with my way to make; and the rescue of the

King had offered just the chance of chances which a man with such an aim

might most desire. I had meant to make Spain my home and to build a

career on the foundation of my contest with Quesada. There was danger

in it, of course; but I was not scared by that; and when I gained my

knowledge of his double treachery, the means to success were I felt,

practically within my reach.

The fact that Quesada feared me sufficiently to resort to the extreme

step of clapping into gaol a member of the Embassy staff on a charge he

knew to be false, and one which he could not substantiate, and the

extraordinary admission he had made to his sister, that by demanding my

release she was ruining them, had given powerful confirmation to my

confidence; and this attempted arrest in despite of Dolores'

intervention, and probably without her knowledge, was still further

corroboration of my view that he feared me.

But the fact that I was now the head of the family had altered

everything. From the instant I had known that, my purpose changed, and

my object was to save Sarita, and with her get out of Spain at the

earliest moment. I had no thought or intention of declaring my identity

to the King unless in actual need of His Majesty's protection, and in

view of the difficulty of explaining that act of mine to Sarita, I had

meant the whole thing to remain a mystery.

And yet here I was faced at the most critical and inopportune moment

with the necessity of explaining.

"The question seems strangely difficult to answer," said Sarita, when I

did not reply.

"I don't know that I need say that. There seems to be a good deal of

misapprehension about me everywhere. Probably I can better answer the

question when I have been to the Palace--if I go at all, that is. But I

am not particularly anxious for His Majesty's goodwill, and prefer to

leave Madrid."

"I shall not leave Madrid now," cried Sarita, instantly. "And I shall

go at once to my home." At this Mercy and Mrs. Curwen broke into

earnest protests, to which Sarita listened unmoved.

"You are one of us now, Sarita, you must not act in this desperate way,

your very life may be in danger," said Mercy, earnestly.

"You do not understand," was the firm, steady reply. "I am in no real

danger; and if I were I should care nothing. For what I have done, I am

prepared to answer. I have plotted for my rightful King, Don Carlos,

and I am not afraid to own it. I had built everything upon this stroke

to-day, and it has failed. Why? Your brother knows probably better than

any one else; and until that mystery is cleared up, I cannot accept your

brother's or your help. I thank you for your offer--from my heart I

thank you--but I cannot accept it."

"This is madness, Sarita," I cried warmly, going to her. I spoke in

Spanish, and Mrs. Curwen and Mercy left us and with Mayhew went to the

other end of the room.

"The name of it does not matter; it is the thing itself I care for. I

consented to leave not because of my own risk in remaining. I am not a

coward to run away because I have failed. I have always had the

possibility, nay, the probability, of failure in my thoughts, and have

always been prepared to face the consequences. If I could contemplate

the necessity of marrying Sebastian Quesada, do you think I should fear

a prison? I consented now, because of the danger to you; but you stand

safe under the golden light of His Majesty's favour; how gained you know

and I fear; but being gained, my motive for flight is gone. I shall stay

in Madrid and shall return to my home."

I knew her too well to entertain much hope that she would change her

mind, and what to do I knew not.

"You judge me very quickly," I said.

"Can you explain the King's sudden favour?"

"Is it not clear that this raiding of to-night had nothing to do with

the success or failure of the attempt on the King?"

"Can you explain the King's sudden favour?" I paused, and then took the

plunge.

"Yes. I took His Majesty this afternoon from the hands of the men who

were carrying him off."

"It is enough. I will go, if you please," she said, quietly.

"You will step straight into danger," I cried.

"I would rather be in danger where you are not, than safe where you are,

Lord Glisfoyle." The cold, cutting words struck me to the heart.

"That is very hard to hear, Sarita."

"It is harder to say, but it is no less than the truth."

"Yet, I will not believe it. Your heart will not say it. You know how

I love you. You know I have not a thought or care but for your good,

your safety, your happiness. You have confessed you love me; I know you

do. I know that it was your love for me that prompted you just now to

think of my danger and consent to leave Madrid. Even now I can read it

in your eyes, for all the coldness you would try to force into them.

You shall not go like this. I swear to God you shall not. If you speak

of truth and mean that we must part, there must be at least some sign

from you of that other truth--the heart truth--that you love me, Sarita.

I will not let you go else."

She was moved by my passion, although she would not let her own respond

to it. But the struggle kept her silent a moment. Then she lifted her

head and looked me calmly and still even coldly in the eyes.

"Do you think I would let my love weigh against treachery to the cause

of my country that is more to me than life itself? Am I so poor a thing

as that? If you wish to give me pain you are causing it. I love you; I

know, as you know. I was not ashamed of it; even if I now feel shame

that I loved one who could deal Spain this blow. But I shall live it

down--I will. But you and I must not meet again." Her firmness began to

give out then, and breaking slightly, she said in a quicker tone of

agitation, "Let me go now. Nay, I will go."

"You are as hard as steel, Sarita, but before you break both our lives

in this wild, impulsive way, you must have time to think. Remember what

I have told you, how all that has occurred to-night has long been

planned, and that it would have occurred just the same if I had not

saved the King. Indeed, it was actually being done while Quesada still

believed the attempt on the King had been successful."

"There is no proof of this," she interposed.

"That is the first ray of hope you have given me. If I prove it, will

you recall the wild words you have spoken to-night? Give our love at

least this one chance, Sarita," I pleaded.

"You cannot prove it," she said wavering.

"When I have proved it, I will put that question again. And now as to

to-night. You cannot go out into the streets in the midst of uproar,

and no power on God's earth shall make me let you do it. Stay here

to-night, promise to see me to-morrow--I will take no refusal; and I

have some claim on you, if for nothing else, for the warning I carried

to-night to the Calle Valencia. Promise that, and I will see Madame

Chansette and relieve her anxiety. She herself is leaving Madrid,

broken down by all this trouble, and when we meet to-morrow, you can

make your decision. You will do this?" At first she would not promise,

but my determination prevailed, and she agreed to stay at the hotel

until the morning; but would not promise to see me then.

I accepted the compromise, however, and having hurriedly explained the

matter to Mrs. Curwen and Mercy, I left with Mayhew, to go and relieve

Madame Chansette's anxiety.

"Did I hear you say you saved the young King?" he asked me as we passed

down the stairs.

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately! Why, when it's known, you'll be the most popular hero

in all Spain."

"And to-night, I am about the most wretched. I could wish His Majesty

had gone to the devil before I interfered in the matter;" and feeling

half-distracted by my gloomy thoughts, I pushed on through the now

clearing streets in the direction of Madame Chansette's house.

We found her waiting up in great distress at Sarita's prolonged absence,

and dreading to hear she had been arrested. The news we brought

relieved her anxiety, and having stayed with her a short time we left.

"Where are you going now?" asked Mayhew. "Hadn't you better come and

turn in with me?"

"No, I think I'll take the risk of going to my own rooms. I don't fancy

the police or Quesada will think for a moment that I shall return there.

And in fact I don't care if they do."

"Rubbish, man. You come with me. You're hipped now, and want an hour

or two's sleep. I'll go to your rooms first thing in the morning;" and

not caring, I agreed. I was as tired as a dog after a hard day's

hunting, and within a few minutes of reaching Mayhew's rooms I fell into

a heavy sleep and did not wake until late in the morning, to find my

friend by my bed shaking me vigorously.

I was vastly refreshed, and had my bath and some breakfast while he went

over to my rooms.

"Everything seems all right there," he reported. "And I brought over the

first things I could find. But I think you may venture there to get

something decent to wear for the interview at the Palace."

"My dear fellow, I wouldn't put my head inside my rooms for a pension,

till I've been to the hotel."

"But last night you wanted to go and sleep there."

"Last night was last night, Silas, and I felt done; but I'm myself again

this morning. Now look here, there are things to do. In the first

place, I've written out a wire for the lawyers about matters in London.

Poor Lascelles' funeral must wait a day or two if need be. Then you've

got to see about the special train for Mrs. Curwen and Mercy to leave,

with Sarita, if she'll go. But the others must go, and probably poor

old Madame Chansette with them. If Sarita goes, I go; if she stops on,

I stop on. I was a fool to leave the hotel at all last night, and my

brain must have been addled or in my boots for me to do it."

"Why not go to London and clear the business there out of the way; let

things simmer down here, and leave me in charge of them; and then come

back and do what has to be done?"

"Have you ever cared for a woman, Silas?"