CARTEL OF DEFIANCE
It was indeed Ramon Garcia, who on a stout shaggy pony, a portmanteau
slung before and behind him, followed his masters with the half-sullen,
wholly downcast look of the true Gallegan servitor. He was well attired
in the Galician manner, appearing indeed like one of those Highlanders
returning from successful service in the Castillas or in Catalunia, all
in rusty brown double-cloth, the _pano pardo_ of his class, his
wide-brimmed hat plumed, and his _alpargatas_ of esparto grass exchanged
for holiday shoes of brown Cordovan leather.
But in his eyes, whenever he raised them, there burned, morose and
unquenchable, the anger of the outcast El Sarria against the world. He
lifted them indeed but seldom, and no one of the cavaliers who rode so
gallantly before him recognised in the decently clad, demure,
well-shaven man-servant supplied to them by the Abbot, the wild El
Sarria, whom with torn mantle and bleeding shoulder, they had seen fling
himself upon the altar of the Abbey of Montblanch.
So when little Etienne de Saint Pierre, that Parisian exquisite and true
Legitimist, finding himself emancipated alike from vows conventual and
monkish attire, and having his head, for the time being, full of the
small deceiver Concha, the companion of Dolores Garcia, inquired for
the village of Sarria and whether they would chance to pass that way, he
never for a moment thought that their honest dullish Jaime from far away
Lugo, took any more interest in the matter than might serve him to
speculate upon what sort of _anisete_ they might chance to find at the
village venta.
By favour of the Abbot the three voyagers into the unknown had most
gallant steeds under them, and were in all things well appointed, with
English and French passports in their own several names and styles as
gentlemen travelling for pleasure, to see strange lands, and especially
this ancient, restless, war-distracted country of Spain.
Their servant, Jaime de Lugo, was appropriately horsed on a little
round-barrelled Asturian pony, able to carry any weight, which padded on
its way with a quiet persistence that never left its master far behind
the most gallant galloper of the cavalcade.
So these three rode on towards the camp of the most redoubted and
redoubtable General Cabrera.
This chief of all the armies of Don Carlos was then at the height of his
fame. His fear was on all the land. He was brave, cruel, perfectly
unscrupulous, this "Killer of Aragon," this "Butcher of Tortosa." In a
few months he had achieved a fame greater almost than that of
Zumalacarregui, the prince of _guerrilleros_, himself.
At this time Cabrera was holding half a dozen of the Cristino generals
at bay, including Minos himself, the chief of all. His tactics consisted
in those immemorial rapid movements and unexpected appearances which
have characterised Spanish guerilla warfare ever since the Carthagenians
invaded the land, and the aboriginal Celtiberians took to the mountains
of Morella and the wild passes of Aragon, just as Cabrera and El
Serrador were doing at this date.
Meanwhile southward out of the pleasant hills of Montblanch, our three
lads were riding, each with his own hopes and fears in his heart. Rollo
of course was the keenest of the party; for not only was the work to his
liking, but he was the natural as well as the actual leader. He alone
knew the Abbot's purposes, or at least as much of them as Don Baltasar
had thought it wise to reveal to his emissary--which after all was not a
great deal.
But John Mortimer had failed to rouse himself to any enthusiasm even
under the spur of Rollo's defiant optimism.
They would return to Montblanch in a week or two, the latter averred. By
that time the passes would be cleared. John's wine would be safe. The
Abbot's seven-year undertaking in his pocket was good for the face of it
at any wine-shipper's in Barcelona. In a month he (Rollo) would be a
colonel--perhaps a general, and he (John Mortimer) rich beyond the
dreams of avarice.
"Or both of us may be dead, more likely!" suggested the latter, with
gloomy succinctness.
"Dead--nonsense!" cried Rollo. "See here, man, you believe in God, or at
any rate your father does. So, hang it, you must have at least a kind of
second-hand interest Above. Now, is there not a time appointed for you
to die? Here, look at this clock" (he took an ancient and very
bulbous-faced watch out of his pocket). "This minute hand has to push
that hour hand so many times round before the moment comes for your
ghost to mount and ride. Till that time comes, let your heart sit
care-free. You cannot hasten, or retard that event by one solitary
tick--can you? No? Well then, keep the ball rolling meantime, and if it
rolls to the camp of Cabrera, why, you will be just as safe there as in
your bed at Chorley with the curtains drawn and your prayers said!"
"I have a notion I could hasten the event in my own case by some few
ticks, with the assistance of this unaccustomed little plaything!" said
John Mortimer, who had been listening to this harangue of Rollo's with
manifest impatience. And as if to prove his words, he made a sweeping
motion with his pistol in the air. Instantly Rollo showed great
interest.
"Good heavens, man, do you know that weapon is fresh-primed, and the
trigger at full cock? If you are anxious to get a ball through your
head, I am not!"
John Mortimer laughed long and loud.
"What about the appointed ticks on the watch-dial now, Master Blair?
Have you forgotten you can neither hasten nor retard the day of your
death? When the minute hand approaches the inevitable moment, Fate's
full stop--did you not call it, you must mount and ride to Hades! Till
then, you know, you are perfectly safe."
Rollo looked disgusted.
"That is the worst of trying to argue with an Englishman," he said; "his
head is like a cannon ball, impervious to all logic. He does not attend
to your premisses, and he never has any of his own! Of course, _if_ it
were ordained by the powers Above that at this moment you should
suddenly go mad and shoot us all, _that_ would be our appointed time,
and you would no more hasten it by your tomfoolery than if a star fell
out of the firmament and knocked this round world to everlasting
potsherds!"
"_Umm!_" said John Mortimer, still unconvinced, "very likely--but--if I
saw my wine-barrels on the ship '_Good Intent_' of Liverpool, and my
thousand pounds upon deposit receipt in honest William Deacon's Bank in
Chorley, it would be a hanged sight more comfort to me than all the
appointed ticks on all the appointed watches in the world!"
And so saying, the Englishman rode on his way very sullenly, muttering
and shaking his head at intervals, as if the journey and adventure they
had entered upon, were not at all to his liking.
During this fatalistic controversy between Rollo and his friend, Etienne
de Saint Pierre had dropped somewhat behind. He had been interested in
the remark of the glum servitor who followed them that they must of
necessity pass through the village of Sarria.
"Do you know that place well?" he said, speaking in Castilian, which,
being of Spanish descent on his mother's side, he knew as accurately as
his native language.
"What place?" queried the Gallegan without raising his eyes. Etienne was
not disturbed by the apparent ill-humour of the fellow. It was, as he
knew, natural to these corner-men of Spain. But he wondered at the
rascal's quite remarkable size and strength. The arm which showed below
the velvet-banded cuff of the rusty brown coat was knotted and corded,
like the roots of an oak where the water wears away the bank in the
spring rains. His chest, where his embroidered shirt was open for a
hand's-breadth down, showed a perfect network of scars, ridged white
cuts, triangular purple stabs, as it were punched out and only half
filled in, as well as cicatrices where wounds reluctant to heal had been
treated by the hot iron of half the unskilful surgeons in Spain.
But after all these things are no novelty in Iberia, where the knife is
still among the lower orders the only court of appeal, and Etienne made
no remark upon them. He had indeed other affairs on his mind of a more
engrossing nature.
"Mon Dieu," he communed with himself, "'tis a full calendar month since
I kissed a pretty girl. I wonder what on earth it feels like?"
The path to Sarria was steep and long, but their guide, now permanently
in the van, threaded his way betwixt stone and stone, now down the
narrow gorge of an _arroyo_ littered with _debris_ and then up the next
talus of slate chips like a man familiar from infancy with the way.
From a commanding hill-top he pointed away to the southward and showed
them where the bayonet of a Cristino outpost glinted every half minute
as the sentinel stalked to and fro upon his beat.
The Gallegan chuckled a little when the Englishman remarked upon their
danger, and tapped his long rifle significantly.
"The danger of the Cristino soldier, you mean," he said, "why, masters
mine, I could lead you to a place from which you might shoot yonder lad
so secretly that his comrades would never know from what quarter arrived
his death."
It was evening ere they drew near the village of Sarria, which lay, a
drift of rusty red roofs and whitewashed walls beneath the tumbled
Aragonese foot-hills. The river ran nearly dry in its channel and the
mill had stopped. There was not enough water to drive the clacking
undershot wheel of Luis Fernandez the comfortable, propertied miller of
Sarria, who had been so cruelly wounded by the outlaw Ramon on the night
when he claimed shelter from the Carlist monks of Montblanch. Ah, well,
all that would soon be at an end, so at least they whispered in Sarria!
If all tales were true, monks, monastery tithes, and rights of
sanctuary, they would all go together. The wise politicians at Madrid,
eager for their country's good (and certain advantages upon the stock
exchange), were about to pass the besom of destruction over the
religious houses, sweeping away in a common ruin grey friar and white
friar and black friar. Nay, the salaried parish priests would find
themselves sadly docked, and even stout Father Mateo himself was
beginning to quake in his shoes and draw his girdle tighter by a hole at
a time to prepare for the event.
So at least the bruit went forth, and though none save the Prior of
Montblanch and his confidant knew anything for certain, the air was full
of rumours; while between the Carlist war and the report of the great
coming changes, the minds of men were growing grievously unsettled.
Honest folk and peaceful citizens now went about armed. The men sat
longer at the _cafes_. They returned later home. They spoke more sharply
to their wives when they asked of them why these things were so.
By the little village gate where Gaspar Perico, the chief representative
of the town dues of Sarria, sat commonly at the receipt of custom, a
group of men occupied a long bench, with their pints of wine and the
sweet syrup of pomegranates before them, as is the custom of Aragon on
summer evenings.
The venta of Sarria was kept by a nephew of Gaspar's, the octroi man,
one recently come to the district. His name was Esteban, and like his
uncle he had already got him the name of a "valiant," or of a man ready
with his tongue and equally ready with his knife.
With the younger Perico's coming, the venta _El Corral_ had promptly
become the Cafe de Madrid, while the prices of all liquors rose to mark
the change, even as in a like proportion their quality speedily
diminished. Customers would doubtless have left at this juncture but for
the fact that Esteban was his uncle's nephew, and that Perico the Elder
sat at the receipt of custom.
So at this newly named Cafe de Madrid our travellers alighted, and the
silent Gallegan, gathering the reins in his hands, disappeared into the
stables, whose roofs rose over the low front of the venta like a
cathedral behind its cloisters.
"Good evening to you, young cavaliers!" cried the gallant Gaspar, who
commonly did the honours even in the presence of his nephew, the nominal
host of the venta. The younger man had followed the Gallegan to the
stables with a declared intent of seeing that the horses were properly
provided for.
"You have come far to-day?" inquired Gaspar courteously.
"From the Abbey of----" (here Rollo kicked Etienne suddenly) "I mean we
passed the Abbey of Montblanch, leaving behind us gladly such a nest of
Carlist thieves! From the true nationalist city of Zaragoza we come,"
said the Count de Saint Pierre in a breath.
"You are all good men and true here, I observe," said Rollo, who had
seen Cristino colours on the official coat of Gaspar Perico.
"Good men and good nationals!" cried Gaspar. "Indeed, I believe you! I
should like to see any other show his face in Sarria. There never was
one since Ramon Garcia became an outlaw, and he fled the village rather
than face me, the champion of the province. Ah, he knew better than to
encounter this noble and well-tried weapon!"
And as he spoke he tapped the brown stock of his blunderbuss, and took a
wholly superfluous squint down the stock to be certain that the sights
were properly adjusted, or perhaps to show the excellent terms he was on
with his weapon.
At this very moment, Esteban the bully, Esteban the unconquered valiant,
came running from the stables of the venta, holding his hands to his
face, and behind him, towering up suddenly and filling the entire
doorway, appeared the huge figure of the Gallegan. What had occurred
between them no man could say. But the Gallegan with great coolness
proceeded to cast out upon the rubbish heap before the door, armful
after armful of chopped and partly rotten straw which exhaled a thin
steam into the cool air of evening. He followed this up by emptying a
huge leather-covered sieve full of bad barley several times upon the
same vaporous mound. Then with the greatest composure and with a
complete understanding of the premises, the Gallegan walked across to a
smaller stable, where the landlord's own cattle were kept. He kicked the
door open with two applications of his foot, and presently was lost to
sight within.
"Shoot him--shoot him, uncle!" cried the half-tearful bully; "he hath
smitten me upon the nose to the outpouring of my blood! Shall a Perico
abide this? Shoot--for the honour of our name!"
But the valiant man of the receipt of customs was also a cautious one.
"Not so, dear Esteban," he said; "this man is the servant of three noble
cavaliers of a foreign nation. If he has done wrong, their purses will
make reparation. They are all rich, these foreigners! For all the spilt
fodder they will also doubtless pay. Is it not so, _caballeros_?"
But Rollo, the readily furious, gripped his sword and said, "Not one
groat or stiver, not a single maravedi, will I pay till I have spoken
with our man-servant and know the cause of this disorder from himself."
And he laid his hand so determinedly on the hilt of Killiecrankie, whose
basket had been endued with a new silk lining of red and tassels of the
same colour, that the valiant men of Sarria thought better of any
designs of attack they might have entertained, and preferred to await
the event.
The Gallegan by this time had emerged from the smaller private stable
with a good bushel measure of straw and barley, which he carried on his
head towards the larger premises where his masters' three steeds and his
own round-barrelled Aragonese pony had been settled for the night.
He waved his hand to the three at the venta door.
"There is now no fault! It is of good quality this time!" he cried.
And no one said a word more concerning the matter. Nor did Senor Esteban
Perico again advert to the stout buffet his nose had received at the
beginning of the affair. On the contrary, he was laboriously polite to
the Gallegan, and put an extra piece of fresh-cut garlic in his soup
when it came to supper-time. For after this fashion was the younger
Perico made.
And while the three waited, they talked to all and sundry. For Etienne
had questions to ask which bore no small relation to the present
preoccupation of his mind.
Concha--oh yes, little Concha Cabezos from Andalucia, certainly they
knew her. All the village knew her.
"A pretty girl and dances remarkably well," said Esteban Perico
complacently, "but holds her head too high for one in her position."
"I do not call that a fault," said Etienne, moving along the wooden
settle in front of the venta door to make room for the huge Gallegan,
who at that moment strolled up. He did this quite naturally, for in
Spain no distinctions of master or servant hold either upon church
pavements or on venta benches.
"No, it is certainly no fault of Concha's that she keeps herself aloof,"
said a young fellow in a rustic galliard's dress--light stockings, knee
breeches of black cloth, a short shell jacket, and a broad sash of red
about his waist. He twirled his moustachios with the air of one who
could tell sad tales of little Concha if only he had the mind.
"And why, sir?" cried Etienne, bristling in a moment like a turkeycock;
"pray, has the young lady vouchsafed you any token of her regard?"
"Nay, not to me," said the local Don Juan, cautiously; "but if you are
anxious upon the question, I advise you to apply to Don Rafael de
Flores, our alcalde's son."
"What," cried the Frenchman, "is he her lover?"
"Her lover of many months," answered Don Juan, "truly you say right. And
the strange thing is that he got himself stabbed for it too, by that
great oaf Ramon Garcia, whom they now call 'El Sarria.' Ha! ha! and he
was as innocent as yourself all the time."
"I will presently interview the Don Rafael de Flores," muttered Etienne.
"This is some slander. 'Tis not possible Concha has been deceiving
me--and she so young, so innocent. Oh, it would be bitter indeed if it
were so!"
He meditated a moment, flicking his polished boot with a riding-whip.
"And all the more bitter, that up to this moment I thought it was I who
was deceiving her."
But the young Don Juan of the Sarrian _cafe_ liked to hold the floor,
and with three distinguished cavaliers for listeners, it was something
to find a subject of common interest. Besides, who knew whether he might
not hear a tale or two to the disadvantage of little Concha Cabezos, who
had flouted him so sadly at last carnival and made a score of girls
laugh at him upon the open Rambla.
"It happened thus," he said, "you have heard of El Sarria the outlaw, on
whose head both parties have set a price?"
"He was of our village," cried half a dozen at once. It was their one
title to respect, indisputable in any company. They began all
conversations when they went from home with Ramon Garcia's name, and the
statement of the fact that they had known his father.
"And a fine old man he was; very gracious and formal and of much
dignity."
"It happened thus," the youthful dandy went on. "El Sarria came home
late one night, and when he arrived at his own gable-end, lo, there by
the _reja_, where the inside stairway mounts, was a youth 'plucking the
turkey' with his sweetheart through a broken bar, and that apparently
with great success. And the fool Ramon, his head being filled with his
Dolores, never bethought himself for a moment that there might be
another pretty girl in the house besides his wife, and so without
waiting either '_Buenos!_' or '_Hola!_'--_click_ went Ramon's knife into
the lover's back! Such a pair of fools as they were!"
"And did this--this Rafael de Flores die?" asked Etienne, divided
between a hope that he had, and a fear that if so he might be balked of
his revenge.
"Die? No--he was about again before many weeks. But this foolish Ramon
took straightway to the hills, because he thought that his wife was
false and that he had killed her cousin and lover."
And even as Don Juan was speaking these words a young man of a slender
form and particularly lithe carriage, dressed in the height of Madrid
fashion, walked into the _cafe_ with a smiling flourish of his hat to
the company.
"A glass of vermuth, Esteban," he said, "and if any of these gentlemen
will join me I shall feel honoured. Be good enough to tell them who I
am, Gaspar, my friend."
"Senor cavalier," said the valiant man of Sarria, planting the butt of
his blunderbuss firmly on the ground that he might lean upon it, and as
it were more officially make the important introduction, "this is no
other than the only son of our rich and distinguished alcalde, Senor Don
Rafael de Flores, concerning whom you have already heard some speech."
And Gaspar, who knew his place, stood back for the impressive civilities
which followed. The jaws of the villagers dropped as they saw the three
foreigners with one accord raise their hats from their heads and make
each a reverence after his kind. Rollo, the tragical Scot, swept back
his sombrero-brim in a grand curve as if it bore a drooping plume. John
Mortimer jerked his beaver vertically off and clapped it down again as
if he had a spite at the crown, while M. Etienne turned out his toes and
in his elbows, as he bowed sharply at the waist with a severe and
haughty expression, without, however, taking his hat from his head.
"I must do the honours, I see," said Rollo, laughing, "since we have no
local trumpeter to do them for us. (Where in the world is that sullen
dog, our most faithful Galician?) This to the left is Monsieur de Saint
Pierre, count of that name. Then next Mr. John Mortimer of Chorley in
England, and as for me I am Rollo Blair of Blair Castle in the county of
Fife, at your service."
At this point the aforesaid M. de Saint Pierre stepped forward. He had
drawn out his card-case and selected a pasteboard with the care and
deliberation with which a connoisseur may choose a cigar.
"I have the honour to present Senor Don Rafael with my cartel of
defiance," he said simply.
The young man thus addressed stood a long moment dumb and fixed in the
middle of the floor, gazing at the engraved lines on the card, which he
had mechanically accepted, without comprehending their meaning.
"A cartel!" he stammered at last; "impossible. I can have no cause of
quarrel with this gentleman from France. I do not even know him!"
But Etienne had all the science of the affair of honour at his
finger-ends.
"I have nothing to say, sir," he replied, frigidly; "I refer you to my
second!"
And he turned to his nearest companion, who happened to be John
Mortimer. The Englishman, however, had but imperfectly understood.
"Well," he said in his best Spanish, "I am prepared to treat for any
quantity, provided the quality be to my satisfaction. But mind, the
terms are, 'delivered on the quay at Barcelona.' _No more Priorato pigs
in pokes for John Mortimer of Chorley._"
He relapsed into English with the last clause, and sticking his thumbs
into the pockets of his waistcoat, he waited Don Rafael's reply to his
ultimatum.
"Holy Virgin, are they all mad?" that young gentleman was crying in a
passion of despair when Rollo stepped forward and bowed courteously.
"The matter is briefly this, as I understand it," he said. "My friend,
M. Etienne de Saint Pierre, has been in terms of considerable amity with
a certain young lady--whose name I need not repeat in a public place. He
has been given to understand that you claim a similar high position in
her favour. If this be so, Senor, my principal wishes to end the
difficulty by a duel to the death, so that the young lady may not be put
to the painful necessity of making a choice between two such gallant
men. I make it _quite_ clear, do I not? Two of you love one lady. The
lady cannot accept both. You fight. There remains but one. The lady is
in no difficulty! Do you both agree?"
"I agree most heartily," said Etienne, rubbing his hands cheerfully, and
practising feints in the air with his forefinger.
"But not I--not I!" cried Don Rafael, with sudden frenzy; "I do not
agree--far from it, indeed. I would have you know that I am a married
man. My wife is waiting for me at home at this moment. I must go. I
must, indeed. Besides, I am under age, and it is murder in the first
degree to shoot an unarmed man. I am not in love with any person. I make
claims to no lady's affection. I am a married man, I tell you,
gentlemen--I was never in love with anybody else. I told my wife so only
this morning!"
"Not with Dona Concha Cabezos of this village?" said Etienne, sternly.
"I am advised that you have been in the habit of making that claim."
"Never, never," cried the gallant, wringing his hands. "Saints, angels,
and martyrs--if this should come to my wife's ears! I swear to you I do
not know any Concha--I never heard of her. I will have nothing to do
with her! Gentlemen, you must excuse me. I have an engagement!"
And with this hurried adieu the little man in the Madrid suit fairly
bolted out of the _cafe_, and ran down the street at full speed.
And in the dusk of the gable arches the Gallegan sat with his head sunk
low in his hands.
"What a fool, Ramon Garcia! What a mortal fool you were--to have thought
for a moment that your little Dolores could have loved a thing like
that!"