and thither, early upon the morrow of their arrival at Pampeluna,
Baltasar was conducted. The passage through the streets of a Carlist
prisoner, whose uniform denoted him to be of rank, had attracted a
little crowd of children and of the idlers ever to be found in Spanish
towns; and some of these loitered in front of the house after its door
had closed behind Baltasar and his escort. The entrance of the prisoner
did not pass unnoticed by Basilio Lopez, who was at his favourite post
at the shop-door. His placid physiognomy testified no surprise at the
appearance of such unusual visitors; and no one, uninterested in
observing him, would have noticed that, as Baltasar passed him, the
cloth-merchant managed to catch his eye, and made a very slight, almost
an imperceptible sign. It was detected by Baltasar, and served to
complete his perplexity, which had already been raised to a high pitch
by the different circumstances that had occurred during his brief
captivity. He had first been puzzled by Herrera's conduct at Puente de
la Reyna; the importance attached by the Christino officer to the
possession and identification of his pistols was unaccountable to him,
never dreaming of its real motive. Then he could not understand why he
was placed in a separate prison, and treated more as a criminal than as
a prisoner of war, instead of sharing the captivity and usage of his
brother officers. And now, to his further bewilderment, he was conducted
to a dwelling-house, before entering which, a man, entirely unknown to
him, made him one of the slight but significant signs by which the
adherents of Don Carlos were wont to recognise each other. He had not
yet recovered from this last surprise, when he was ushered into a room
where three persons were assembled. One of these was an aide-de-camp of
Cordova, Herrera was another, and in the third, to his unutterable
astonishment and consternation, Baltasar recognized Count Villabuena.
There was a moment's silence, during which the cousins gazed at each
other; the Count sternly and reproachfully, Baltasar with dilated
eyeballs and all the symptoms of one who mistrusts the evidence of his
senses. But Baltasar was too old an offender, too hardened in crime and
obdurate in character, to be long accessible to emotion of any kind. His
intense selfishness caused his own interests and safety to be ever
uppermost in his thoughts, and the first momentary shock over, he
regained his presence of mind, and was ready to act his part. Affecting
extreme delight, he advanced with extended hand towards the Count.
"Dare I believe my eyes?" he exclaimed. "A joyful surprise, indeed,
cousin."
"Silence, sir!" sternly interrupted the Count. "Dissimulation will not
serve you. You are unmasked--your crimes known. Repent, and, if
possible, atone them."
Baltasar recoiled with well-feigned astonishment.
"My crimes!" he indignantly repeated. "What is this, Count? Who accuses
me--and of what?"
Without replying, Count Villabuena looked at Herrera, who approached the
door and pronounced a name, at which Baltasar, in spite of his
self-command, started and grew pale. Paco entered the apartment.
"Here," said the Count, "is one witness of your villany."
"And here, another," said Herrera, lifting a handkerchief from the table
and exhibiting Baltasar's pistols.
The Carlist colonel staggered back as if he had received a blow. All
that he had found inexplicable in the events of the last few days was
now explained; he saw that he was entrapped, and that his offences were
brought home to him. With a look of deadly hate at Herrera and the
Count, he folded his arms and stood doggedly silent.
In few words Herrera now informed Baltasar of the power vested in him by
Cordova, and stated the condition on which he might yet escape the
punishment of his crimes. These, however, Baltasar obstinately persisted
in denying; nor were any threats sufficient to extort confession, or to
prevail with him to write the desired letter to the abbess. Assuming the
high tone of injured innocence, he scoffed at the evidence brought
against him, and swore solemnly and deliberately that he was ignorant of
Rita's captivity. Paco, he said, as a deserter, was undeserving of
credit, and had forged an absurd tale in hopes of reward. As to the
pistols, nothing was easier than to cast a bullet to fit them, and he
vehemently accused Herrera of having fabricated the account of his
firing at his cousin. A violent and passionate discussion ensued, highly
agitating to the Conde in his then weak and feverish state. Finding, at
length, that all Herrera's menaces had no effect on Baltasar's sullen
obstinacy, Count Villabuena, his heart wrung by suspense and anxiety,
condescended to entreaty, and strove to touch some chord of good
feeling, if, indeed, any still existed, in the bosom of his unworthy
kinsman.
"Hear me, Baltasar," he said; "I would fain think the best I can of you.
Let us waive the attempt on my life; no more shall be said of it. Gladly
will I persuade myself that we have been mistaken; that my wound was the
result of a chance shot either from you or your followers. Irregularly
armed, one of them may have had pistols of the same calibre as yours.
But my daughter, my dear poor Rita! Restore her, Baltasar, and let all
be forgotten. On that condition you have Herrera's word and mine that
you shall be the very first prisoner exchanged. Oh, Baltasar, do not
drive to despair an old man, broken-hearted already! Think of days gone
by, never to return; of your childhood, when I have so often held you on
my knee; of your youth, when, in spite of difference of age, we were for
a while companions and friends. Think of all this, Baltasar, and return
not evil for good. Give me back my Rita, and receive my forgiveness, my
thanks, my heartfelt gratitude. Your arm shall be stronger in the fight,
your head calmer on your pillow, for the righteous and charitable act."
In the excitement of this fervent address, the Count had risen from his
chair, and stood with arms extended, and eyes fixed upon the gloomy
countenance of Baltasar. His lips quivering with emotion, his trembling
voice, pale features, and long grey hair; above all, the subject of his
entreaties--a father pleading for the restoration of his only child--and
his passionate manner of urging them, rendered the scene inexpressibly
touching, and must have moved any but a heart of adamant. Such a one was
that of Baltasar, who stood with bent brow and a sneer upon his lip,
cold, contemptuous, and relentless.
"Brave talk!" he exclaimed, in his harshest and most brutal tones;
"brave talk, indeed, of old friendship and the like! Was it friendship
that made you forget me in Ferdinand's time, when your interest might
have advanced me? When you wanted me, I heard of you, but not before;
and better for me had we never met. You lured me to join a hopeless
cause, by promises broken as soon as claimed. You have ruined my
prospects, treated me with studied scorn, and now you talk, forsooth, of
old kindness and friendship, and sue--to me in chains--for mercy! It has
come to that! The haughty Count Villabuena craves mercy at the hands of
a prisoner! I answer you, I know nothing of your daughter; but I also
tell you, Count, that if all yonder fellow's lies were truth, and I held
the keys of her prison, I would sooner wear out my life in the foulest
dungeon than give them up to you. But, pshaw! she thinks little enough
about you. She has found her protector, I'll warrant you. There are
smart fellows and comely amongst the king's followers, and she won't
have wanted for consolation."
It seemed as if Baltasar's defenceless condition was hardly to protect
him from the instant punishment of his vile insinuation. With a deep
oath, Herrera half drew his sword, and made a step towards the
calumniator of his mistress. But his indignation, great though it was,
was checked in its expression, and entirely lost sight of, owing to a
sudden outbreak of the most furious and uncontrolled anger on the part
of the Count. His face, up to that moment so pale, became suffused with
blood, till the veins seemed ready to burst; his temples throbbed
visibly, his eyes flashed, his lips grew livid, and his teeth chattered
with fury.
"Scoundrel!" he shouted, in a voice which had momentarily regained all
its power--"scoundrel and liar! Assassin, with what do you reproach me?
Why did I cast you off, and when? Never till your own vices compelled
me. What promise did I make and not keep? Not one. Base traducer,
disgrace to the name you bear! so sure as there is a God in heaven, your
misdeeds shall meet their punishment here and hereafter!"
During this violent apostrophe, Baltasar, who, at Herrera's threatening
movement, had glanced hurriedly around him as if seeking a weapon of
defence, resumed his former attitude of indifference. Leaning against
the wall, he stood with folded arms, and gazed with an air of insolent
hardihood at the Count, who had advanced close up to him, and who,
carried away by his anger, shook his clenched hand almost in his
cousin's face. Suddenly, however, overcome and exhausted by the violence
of his emotions, and by this agitating scene, the Count tottered, and
would have fallen to the ground, had not Herrera and Torres hurried to
his support. They placed him in his chair, into which he helplessly
sank; his head fell back, the colour again left his cheeks, and his eyes
closed.
"He has fainted," cried Herrera.
The Count was indeed insensible. Torres hastened to unfasten his cravat.
"Air!" exclaimed Torres; "give him air!"
Herrera ran to the window and threw it open. Water was thrown upon the
Count's face, but without reviving him; and his swoon was so deathlike,
that for a moment his anxious friends almost feared that life had
actually departed.
"Let him lie down," said Torres, looking around for a sofa. There was
none in the room.
"Let us place him on his bed," cried Herrera. And, aided by Torres and
Paco, he carefully raised the Count and carried him into an adjoining
room, used as a bedchamber. Baltasar remained in the same place which he
had occupied during the whole time of the interview, namely, on the side
of the room furthest from the windows, and with his back against the
wall.
It has already been said that Baltasar de Villabuena had few friends. In
all Pampeluna there was probably not one man, even amongst his former
comrades of the guard, who would have moved a step out of his way to
serve or save him; and certainly, in the whole city, there were scarcely
half a dozen persons who, through attachment to the Carlist cause, would
have incurred any amount of risk to rescue one of its defenders. Most
fortunately for Baltasar, it was in the house of one of those rare but
strenuous adherents of Don Carlos that he now found himself. Scarcely
had the Count and his bearers passed through the doorway between the two
rooms, when a slight noise close to him caused Baltasar to turn. A
pannel of the chamber wall slid back, and the sleek rotund visage of the
man who had exchanged signs with him as he entered the house, appeared
at the aperture. His finger was on his lips, and his small grey eyes
gleamed with an unusual expression of decision and vigilance. One
lynx-like glance he cast into the apartment, and then grasping the arm
of Baltasar, he drew, almost dragged him through the opening. The pannel
closed with as little noise as it had opened.
Ten seconds elapsed, not more, and Herrera, who, in his care for the
Count, had momentarily forgotten the prisoner, hurried back into the
apartment. Astonished to find it empty, but not dreaming of an escape,
he ran to the antechamber. The corporal and two soldiers, who had
escorted Baltasar, rose from the bench whereon they had seated
themselves, and carried arms.
"And the prisoner?" cried Herrera.
They had not seen him. Herrera darted back into the sitting-room.
"Where is the prisoner?" exclaimed Torres, whom he met there.
"Escaped!" cried Herrera. "The window! the window!"
They rushed to the open window. It was at the side of the house, and
looked out upon a narrow street, having a dead wall for some distance
along one side, and little used as a thoroughfare. At that moment not a
living creature was to be seen in it. The height of the window from the
ground did not exceed a dozen feet, offering an easy leap to a bold and
active man, and one which, certainly, no one in Baltasar's circumstances
would for a moment have hesitated to take. Herrera threw himself over
the balcony, and dropping to the ground, ran off down a neighbouring
lane, round the corner of which he fancied, on first reaching the
window, that he saw the skirt of a man's coat disappear. Leaving the
Count, who was now regaining consciousness, in charge of Paco, Torres
hurried out to give the alarm and cause an immediate pursuit.
But in vain, during the whole of that day, was the most diligent search
made throughout the town for the fugitive Carlist. Every place where he
was likely to conceal himself, the taverns and lower class of posadas,
the parts of the town inhabited by doubtful and disreputable characters,
the houses of several suspected Carlists, were in turn visited, but not
a trace of Baltasar could be found, and the night came without any
better success. Herrera was furious, and bitterly reproached himself for
his imprudence in leaving the prisoner alone even for a moment. His
chief hope, a very faint one, now was, that Baltasar would be detected
when endeavouring to leave the town. Strict orders were given to the
sentries at the gates, to observe all persons going out of Pampeluna,
and to stop any of suspicious appearance, or who could not give a
satisfactory account of themselves.
The hour of noon, upon the day subsequent to Baltasar's disappearance,
was near at hand, and the peasants who daily visited Pampeluna with the
produce of their farms and orchards, were already preparing to depart.
The presence of Cordova's army, promising them a great accession of
custom, and the temporary absence from the immediate vicinity of the
Carlist troops, who frequently prevented their visiting Christino towns
with their merchandise, had caused an unusual concourse of
country-people to Pampeluna during the few days that the Christino army
had already been quartered there. Each morning, scarcely were the gates
opened when parties of peasants, and still more numerous ones of
short-petticoated, brown-legged peasant women, entered the town, and
pausing upon the market-place, proceeded to arrange the stores of fowls,
fruit, vegetables, and similar rustic produce, which they had brought on
mules and donkeys, or in large heavy baskets upon their heads. Long
before the sun had attained a sufficient height to cast its beams into
the broad cool-looking square upon which the market was held, a
multitude of stalls had been erected, and were covered with luscious
fruits and other choice products of the fertile soil of Navarre. Piles
of figs bursting with ripeness; melons, green and yellow, rough and
smooth; tomatas; scarlet and pulpy; grapes in glorious bunches of gold
and purple; cackling poultry and passive rabbits; the whole intermingled
with huge heaps of vegetables, and nose-gays of beautiful flowers, were
displayed in wonderful profusion to the gaze of the admiring soldiers,
who soon thronged to the scene of bustle. As the morning advanced,
numerous maid-servants, trim, arch-looking damsels, with small
neatly-shod feet, basket on arm, and shading their complexion from the
increasing heat of the sun under cotton parasols of ample dimensions,
tripped along between the rows of sellers, pausing here and there to
bargain for fruit or fowl, and affecting not to hear the remarks of the
soldiers, who lounged in their neighbourhood, and expressed their
admiration by exclamations less choice than complimentary. The day wore
on; the stalls were lightened, the baskets emptying, but the market
became each moment more crowded. Little parties of officers emerged from
the coffee-houses where they had breakfasted, and strolled up and down,
criticizing the buxom forms and pretty faces of the peasant girls; here
and there a lady's mantilla appeared amongst the throng of female heads,
which, for the most part, were covered only with coloured handkerchiefs,
or left entirely bare, protected but by black and redundant tresses, the
boast of the Navarrese maidens. Catalonian wine-sellers, their
queer-shaped kegs upon their backs, bartered their liquor for the copper
coin of the thirsty soldiers; pedlars displayed their wares, and
_sardineras_ vaunted their fish; ballad-singers hawked about copies of
patriotic songs; mahogany-coloured _gitanas_ executed outlandish, and
not very decent, dances; whilst here and there, in a quiet nook, an
itinerant gaming-table keeper had erected his board, and proved that he,
of all others, best knew how to seduce the scanty and hard-earned
maravedis from the pockets of the pleasure-seeking soldiery.
But, as already mentioned, the hour of noon now approached, and
marketing was over for that day. The market-place, and its adjacent
streets, so thronged a short time previously, became gradually deserted
under the joint influence of the heat and the approaching dinner hour.
The peasants, some of whom came from considerable distances, packed up
their empty baskets, and, with lightened loads and heavy pockets,
trudged down the streets leading to the town gates.
At one of these gates, leading out of the town in a northerly direction,
several of the men on guard were assembled, amusing themselves at the
expense of the departing peasantry, whose uncouth physiognomy and
strange clownish appearance afforded abundant food for the quaint jokes
and comical remarks of the soldiers. The market people were, for the
most part, women, old men, and boys; the able-bodied men from the
country around Pampeluna, having, with few exceptions, left their homes,
either voluntarily or by compulsion, to take service in the Carlist
ranks. Beneath the projecting portico of the guard-house, sat a
sergeant, occupied, in obedience to orders given since the escape of
Baltasar, in surveying the peasants as they passed with a keen and
scrutinizing glance. For some time, however, this military Cerberus
found no object of suspicion in any of the passers-by. Lithe active
lads, greyhaired old men, and women whose broad shoulders and brawny
limbs might well have belonged to disguised dragoons, but who,
nevertheless, were unmistakeably of the softer sex, made up the
different groups which successively rode or walked through the gate.
Gradually the departures became less numerous, and the sergeant less
vigilant; he yawned, stretched himself in his chair, rolled up a most
delicate cigarrito between his large rough fingers, and lighting it,
puffed away with an appearance of supreme beatitude.
"Small use watching," said he to a corporal. "The fellow's not likely to
leave the town in broad daylight, with every body on the look-out for
him."
"True," was the answer. "He'll have found a hiding-place in the house of
some rascally Carlist. There are plenty in Pampeluna."
"Well," said the first speaker, "I'm tired of this, and shall punish my
stomach no longer. Whilst I take my dinner, do you take my place. Stay,
let yonder cabbage-carriers pass."
The peasants referred to by the sergeant, were a party of half a dozen
women, and nearly as many lads and men, who just then showed themselves
at the end of the street, coming towards the gate. Most of them were
mounted on rough mountain ponies and jackasses, although three or four
of the women trudged afoot, with pyramids of baskets balanced upon their
heads, the perspiration streaming down their faces from the combined
effects of the sun and their load. The last of the party was a stout
man, apparently some five-and-forty years of age, dressed in a jacket
and breeches of coarse brown cloth, and seated sideways on a scraggy
mule, in such a position that his back was to the guard-house as he
passed it. On the opposite side of the animal hung a pannier, containing
cabbages and other vegetables; the unsold residue of the rider's stock
in trade. The peasant's legs, naked below the knee, were tanned by the
sun to the same brown hue as his face and bare throat; his feet were
sandalled, and just above one of his ankles, a soiled bandage,
apparently concealing a wound, was wrapped. A broad-brimmed felt hat
shaded his half-closed eyes and dull stolid countenance, and the only
thing that in any way distinguished him from the generality of peasants
was his hair, which was cut short behind, instead of hanging, according
to the usual custom of the province, in long ragged locks over the coat
collar.
Occupied with his cigar and gossip, the sergeant vouchsafed but a
careless and cursory glance to this party, and they were passing on
without hindrance, when, from a window of the guard-house, a voice
called to them to halt.
"How now, sergeant!" exclaimed the young ensign on guard. "What is the
meaning of this? Why do these people pass without examination?"
The negligent sergeant rose hastily from his chair, and, assuming an
attitude of respect, faltered an excuse.
"Peasants, sir; market-people."
The officer, who had been on guard since the preceding evening, had been
sitting in his room, waiting the arrival of his dinner, which was to be
sent to him from his quarters, and was rather behind time. The delay had
put him out of temper.
"How can you tell that? You are cunning to know people without looking
at then. Let them wait."
And the next moment he issued from the guard-house, and approached the
peasants.
"Your name?" said he, sharply, to the first of the party.
"Jose Samaniego," was the answer. "A poor _aldeano_ from Artica, _para
servir a vuestra senoria_. These are my wife and daughter."
The speaker was an old, greyhaired man, with wrinkled features, and a
stoop in his shoulders; and, notwithstanding a cunning twinkle in his
eye, there was no mistaking him for any thing else than he asserted
himself to be.
The officer turned away from him, glanced at the rest of the party, and
seemed about to let them pass, when his eye fell upon the sturdy,
crop-headed peasant already referred to. He immediately approached him.
"Where do you come from?" said he, eyeing him with a look of suspicion.
The sole reply was a stare of stupid surprise. The officer repeated the
question.
"From Berriozar," answered the man, naming a village at a greater
distance from Pampeluna than the one to which old Samaniego claimed to
belong. And then, as if he supposed the officer inclined to become a
customer, he reached over to his pannier and took out a basket of figs.
"Fine figs, your worship," said he, mixing execrably bad Spanish with
Basque words. "_Muy barato_. You shall have them very cheap."
When the man mentioned his place of abode, two or three of the women
exchanged a quick glance of surprise; but this escaped the notice of the
officer, who now looked hard in the peasant's face, which preserved its
former expression of immovable and sleepy stupidity.
"Dismount," said the ensign.
The man pointed to his bandaged ankle; but on a repetition of the order
he obeyed, with a grimace of pain, and then stood on one leg, supporting
himself against the mule.
"I shall detain this fellow," said the officer, after a moment's pause.
"Take him into the guard-room."
Just then a respectable-looking, elderly citizen, on his return
apparently from a stroll outside the fortifications, walked past on his
way into the town. On perceiving the young officer, he stopped and shook
hands with him.
"Welcome to Pampeluna, Don Rafael!" he exclaimed. "Your regiment I knew
was here, but could not believe that you had come with it, since I had
never before known you to neglect your old friends."
"No fault of mine, Senor Lopez," replied the officer. "Three days here,
and not a moment's rest from guards and fatigue duty."
"Well, don't forget us; Ignacia and Dolores look for you. Ah, Blas! you
here? How's your leg, poor Blas? Did you bring the birds I ordered?"
These questions were addressed to the lame peasant, who replied by a
grin of recognition; and an assurance that the birds in question had
been duly delivered to his worship's servant.
"Very good," said Lopez. "Good morning, Don Rafael."
The young officer stopped him.
"You know this man, then, Senor Lopez?" inquired the ensign.
"Know him? as I know you. Our poultry-man; and if you will sup with us
to-night, when you come off guard, you shall eat a fowl of his
fattening."
"With pleasure," replied the ensign. "You may go," he added, turning to
the peasant. "Let these people pass, sergeant. May I be shot, Don
Basilio, if I didn't mean to detain your worthy poulterer on suspicion
of his being a better man than he looked. There has been an escape, and
a sharp watch is held to keep the runaway in the town. It would have
been cruel, indeed, to stop the man who brings me my supper. Ha, ha! a
capital joke! Stopping my own supplies!"
"A capital joke, indeed," said Lopez, laughing heartily. "Well, good
bye, Don Rafael. We shall expect you to-night."