LA MAIN DE FER
Juanita was very early astir the next morning. The house was peculiarly
quiet, but she knew that Marcos, if he had been abroad, had now returned;
for Perro was lying on the terrace in the sunlight watching the library
window.
Juanita went to that room and there found Marcos writing letters. A map
of the Valley of the Wolf lay open on the table beside him.
"You are always writing letters," she said. "You began writing them on
the splash-board of the carriage at the mouth of the valley and you have
been doing it ever since."
"They are making use of my knowledge of the valley," he replied. He
continued his task after a very quick glance up at her. Juanita had found
out that he rarely looked at her.
"I am not at all tired after our adventure," she said. "I made up last
night for the want of sleep. Do I look tired?"
"Not at all," answered Marcos, glancing no higher than her waist.
"But I had a dream," she said. "It was so vivid that I am not sure now
that it was a dream. I am not sure that I did not in reality get out of
bed quite early in the morning, before daylight, when the moon was just
touching the mountains, and look out of my window. And the terrace,
Marcos, was covered with soldiers; rows and rows of them, like shadows.
And at the end, beneath my window, stood a group of men. Some were
officers; one looked like General Pacheco, fat with a chuckling laugh;
another seemed to be Captain Zeneta--the friend who stood by us in the
chapel of Our Lady of the Shadows--who was saying his prayers, you
remember. Most young men are too conceited to say their prayers nowadays.
And there were two civilians, in riding-boots all dusty, who looked
singularly like you and Uncle Ramon. It was an odd dream, Marcos--was it
not?"
"Yes," answered he with a laugh. "Do not tell it to the wrong people as
Joseph did."
"No, your reverence," she said. She stood looking at him with grave eyes.
"Is there going to be a battle?" she asked, curtly.
"Yes."
"Where?"
He pointed down into the valley with his pen.
"Just above the bridge if it all comes off as they have planned."
She went out on to the terrace and looked down into the valley, which was
peaceful enough in the morning light. The thin smoke of the pine
wood-fires rose from the chimneys in columns of brilliant blue. The sheep
on the slopes across the valley were calling to their lambs. Then Juanita
returned to the library window and stood on the threshold, with brooding
eyes and a bright patch of colour in her cheeks.
"Will you do me a favour?" she asked.
"Of course."
He lifted his pen from the paper, but did not look up.
"If there is a battle--if there is any fighting, will you take great care
of yourself? It would be so terrible if anything happened to you ... for
Uncle Ramon I mean."
"Yes," answered Marcos, gravely. "I understand. I promise to take care."
Juanita still lingered at the window.
"And you always keep your promises, don't you? To the letter?"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"No, of course not. It is characteristic of you, that is all. Your
promise is a sort of rock that nothing can move. Women, you know, make a
promise and then ask to be let off; you would not do that?"
"No," answered Marcos, quite simply.
In Navarre the hours of meals are much the same as those that rule in
England to-day. At one o'clock luncheon both Marcos and Sarrion were at
home. The valley seemed quiet enough. The soldiers of Juanita's dream
seemed to have vanished like the shadows to which she compared them.
"I am sure," said Cousin Peligros, while they were still at the table,
"that the sound of firing approaches. I have a very delicate hearing. All
my senses are very highly developed. The sound of the firing is nearer,
Marcos."
"Zeneta is retreating slowly before the enemy, with his small force,"
explained Marcos.
"But why is he doing that? He must surely know that there are ladies at
Torre Garda."
"Ladies are not articles of war," said Juanita with a frivolous disregard
of Cousin Peligros' reproving face. "And this is war."
As she spoke Marcos rose and quitted the room after glancing at his
watch. Juanita followed him.
"Marcos," she said, in the hall, having closed the dining-room door
behind her. "Will you tell me what time it will begin?"
"Zeneta is timed to retreat across the bridge at three o'clock. The enemy
will, it is hoped, follow him."
"And where will you be?"
"I shall be with Pacheco and his staff on the hill behind Pedro's mill.
You will see a little flag wherever Pacheco is."
Cousin Peligros' delicate hearing had not been deceived. The firing was
now close at hand. The valley takes a turn to the left below the ridge
and upon the hillside above this corner the white irregular line of smoke
now became visible.
In a few minutes the dark mass of Zeneta's men appeared on the road at
the corner. He was before his time. The men were running. They raised the
dust like a troop of sheep and moved in a halo of it. Every hundred yards
they stopped and fired a volley. They were acting with perfect regularity
and from a distance looked like toy soldiers. They were retreating in
good order and the sound of their volleys came at regular intervals. On
the bridge they halted. They were going to make a stand here, as would
seem natural. Had they had artillery they could have effectually held
this strong and narrow place.
It now became apparent that they were a woefully small detachment. They
could not spare men to take up positions on the rocky hillside behind
them.
There was a pause. The Carlists were waiting for their skirmishers to
come in from heights above the road.
Sarrion and Juanita stood at the edge of the terrace. Sarrion was
watching with a quick and comprehensive glance.
"Is General Pacheco a good general?" asked Juanita.
"Excellent."
Sarrion did not comment further on this successful soldier.
"They played me false," the General had told him indignantly a few hours
earlier. "They promised me a good sum--yes a sufficient sum. But when the
time came the money was not forthcoming. An awkward position; but I found
a way out of it."
"By being loyal," suggested Sarrion with a short laugh and there the
conversation ceased.
Juanita looked across the valley towards Pedro's mill. There was no flag
there. All the valley was peaceful enough, giving in the brilliant
sunshine no glint of sword or bayonet.
On the bridge, the little knot of men awaited the advent of the Carlists
forming up round the corner. In a moment these came, swarming over the
road and the hillside. The roadway was packed with them, the rocks and
the bushes above the river seemed alive with them. They fired
independently, and the hillside was white in a moment. The royalist
troops on the bridge fired one volley and then turned. They ran straight
along the road. Some threw down their knapsacks. One or two stopped,
seemed to hesitate and then laid them down on the road like a tired
child. Others limped to the side and sat there.
All the while the Carlists came on. The rear ranks were still coming
round the corner. The skirmishers were already across the bridge. There
was only one place for Zeneta's men to run to now--the castle of Torre
Garda. They were already at the foot of the slope. Juanita and Sarrion
could distinguish the slim form of their commander walking along the road
behind his men, sword in hand. Sometimes he ran a few steps, but for the
most part he walked with long, steady strides, shepherding his men.
They began to climb the slope, and Zeneta took up his position on a rock
jutting out of the hillside. He stood on tiptoe and watched the bridge.
The last of the Carlists were on it now. Juanita could see his eager
face, with intrepid eyes alert, and lips apart, drawn back over his
teeth. She glanced at Sarrion, whose lips were the same. His eyes
glittered. He was biting his lower lip.
As the last man ran across the bridge on the heels of his comrades,
Zeneta looked across the valley towards the water mill. He waved his
handkerchief high above his head. A little flag fluttered above the trees
growing round the mill-wheel.
Cousin Peligros being only human now came to the terrace to see what was
happening. She had taken the precaution of putting on her mittens and
opening her parasol.
"What is the meaning of this noise?" she asked; but neither Sarrion nor
Juanita seemed to hear her. They were watching the little flag, which
seemed to be descending the hill.
So close beneath the house were Zeneta's men now, that those on the
terrace could hear his voice.
"The bridge," said Sarrion, under his breath. "Look at the bridge!"
It was half hidden in the smoke that still hovered in the air, but
something was taking place there. Men were running hither and thither.
The sunlight glittered on uniform and bayonet.
"Guns!" said Sarrion curtly, and as he spoke the whole valley shook
beneath their feet. A roar seemed to arise from the river and spread all
up the hills, and simultaneously a cloak of white smoke was laid over the
green slopes.
Juanita saw Zeneta stand for a moment, with sword upheld, while his men
gathered round him. Then with a wild shout of exultation he led them down
the hill again. Before he had run ten paces he fell--his feet seemed to
slip from under him, and he lay at full length for a moment--then he was
up again and at the head of his men.
A bullet came singing up over the low brushwood and a distant tinkle of
falling glass told that it had found its billet in a window. The bushes
in the garden seemed suddenly alive with rustling life and Sarrion
dragged Juanita back from the balustrade.
"No--no!" she said angrily.
"Yes--I promised Marcos," answered Sarrion with his arm round her waist.
In a moment they were in the library where they found Cousin Peligros in
an easy chair with folded hands and the face of a very early Christian
martyr.
"I have never been treated like this before," she said severely.
Sarrion stood at the window, keeping Juanita in.
"It will be all over in a few minutes," he said. "Holy Virgin! What a
lesson for them."
The din was terrible. The lady of delicate hearing placed her hands over
her ears not forgetting to curl her little finger in the manner deemed
irresistible by her generation. Quite suddenly the firing ceased as if by
the turning of a tap.
"There," said Sarrion, "it is over. Marcos said they were to be taught a
lesson. They have learnt it."
He quitted the room taking his hat which he had thrown aside.
Juanita went to the terrace. She could see nothing. The whole valley was
hidden in smoke which rolled upward in yellow clouds. The air choked her.
She came back to the library, coughing, and went towards the door.
"Juanita," said Cousin Peligros, "I forbid you to leave the room. I
absolutely refuse to be left alone."
"Then call your maid," said Juanita, patiently.
"Where are you going?"
"I am going to follow Uncle Ramon down to the valley. There must be
hundreds of wounded. I can do something----"
"Then I forbid you to go. It is permissible for Marcos to identify
himself with such proceedings--in protection of those whom Providence has
placed under his care. Indeed I should expect it of him. It is his duty
to defend Torre Garda."
Juanita looked at the supine form in the easy chair.
"Yes," she answered. "And I am mistress of Torre Garda."
Which, perhaps, had a double meaning, for when she closed the door--not
without emphasis--Cousin Peligros sat upright with a start.
Juanita hurried out of the house and ran down the road winding on the
slope to the village. The smoke choked her; the air was impregnated with
sulphur. It seemed impossible that anybody could have lived through these
hellish minutes that were passed. In front of her she saw Sarrion
hurrying in the same direction. A moment later she gave a little cry of
joy. Marcos was riding up the slope at a gallop. He pulled up when he saw
his father and by the time he had quitted the saddle, Juanita was with
him.
Marcos' face was gray beneath the sunburn. His eyes were bloodshot and
his lips were pressed upward in a line of deadly resolution. It was the
face of a man who had seen something that he would never forget. He
looked at his father.
"Evasio Mon," he said.
"Killed?"
Marcos nodded his head.
"You did not do it?" said Sarrion sharply.
"No. They found him among the Carlists, There were five or six priests.
It was Zeneta--wounded himself--who recognised him and told me. He was
not dead when Zeneta found him--and he spoke. 'Always the losing game,'
he said. Then he smiled--and died."
Sarrion turned and led the way slowly back again towards the house.
Juanita seemed to have forgotten her intention of going to the valley to
offer help to the nursing-sisters who lived in the village.
Marcos' horse, the Moor, was shaking and dragged on the bridle which he
had slipped over his arm. He jerked angrily at the reins, looking back
with a little exclamation of impatience. Juanita took the bridle from his
arm and led the horse which followed her quietly enough. She said nothing
and asked no questions. But she was watching Marcos' face--wondering,
perhaps, if it would ever soften again.
Sarrion was the first to speak.
"Poor Mon," he said, half addressing Juanita. "He was never a fortunate
man. He took the wrong turning years ago. He abandoned the Church in
order to ask a woman to marry him. But she had scruples. She thought, or
she was made to think, that her duty lay in another direction. And Mon's
life ... well ...!"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I know," said Juanita quietly ... "all about it."