THE DEATH-CART
Thus came the little Isabel of Spain into sanctuary. That the respite
could only be temporary, Rollo knew too well. The monks were stout and
willing men, but such arms as they had belonged to almost primitive
times, chiefly old blunderbusses of various patterns from the middle of
the sixteenth century to the end of the eighteenth, together with a
halberd or two which had been used from time immemorial in the Hermitage
kitchen for breaking bones to get out the marrow, chopping firewood, and
such like humble and peaceful occupations.
Two of the remaining brothers of the Ermita were as other men, plain,
simple and devout, ready to give up their lives, either by dying of
disease at their post of duty, or by the steel of cruel and ignorant
men, as the martyrs and confessors of whom they read in their breviaries
had done in times past.
The cook-almoner on the other hand proved to be a shrewd little man,
with much ready conversation, a great humorist at most times, yet not
without a due regard for his own safety. Him the little Princess knew
well, having often stolen off through the gardens and down the long
"Mall" to taste his confectioned cakes, made in the Austrian manner
after a receipt which dated from the time of the founder of blessed
memory, Henry the Fourth of that name, and often partaken of by Catholic
sovereigns when they drove out to the lofty grange and Hermitage of the
Segovian monks of El Parral.
The fourth and principal friar proved upon acquaintance to be a man of
another mould. He was a tall square-shouldered man, now a little bent
with age, but with the fires of loyalty burning deep within eyes of the
clearest and most translucent blue. His hair was now quickly frosting
over with premature infirmity, for not only was his constitution feeble
but he was just recovering from a dangerous attack of pneumonia.
Altogether Brother Teodoro was a northern-looking rather than a Spanish
man. It was not till afterwards that Rollo discovered that he belonged
to the ancient race of the Basques, and that in his day he had fought as
a bold soldier in the _partidas_, which rose in the rear of Napoleon's
marshals when he sent his legions across the Pyrenees. Indeed, he had
even followed _El Gran' Lor_ to Toulouse when the battered remnants of
that great army skulked back home again beaten by the iron discipline of
England and the gad-fly persistence of the Spanish _guerrilleros_.
It was with Brother Teodoro then, as with a man already walking in the
shadow of death, that Rollo in quick low-spoken sentences discussed the
possibilities of the Hermitage as a place of defence. It was clear that
no ordinary military precautions and preparations would serve them now.
The four brethren were willing, if need were, to lay down their lives
for the young Queen. But saving the pistols and the limited ammunition
which Rollo had brought with him in his belt, and the bell-mouthed
blunderbusses aforesaid, rusted and useless, there was not a single
weapon of offence within the Hermitage of San Ildefonso of greater
weight than the kitchen poker.
The Basque friar laid his hand on his brow and leaned against the wall
for a minute or two in silent meditation.
"I have it," he said, suddenly turning upon Rollo, "it is our only
chance, a ghastly one it is true, but we are in no case for fine
distinctions. _We will get out the death-cart and gather us an army!_"
Rollo gazed at the monk Teodoro as if he had suddenly lost his wits.
"The death-cart! What is that?" he cried, "and how will that help us to
gather an army?"
The Basque smiled, and Rollo noticed when he did so that his eyebrows
twitched spasmodically. There was a broad scar slashed across one of
them. This man had not been in the army of the _Gran' Lor_ for nothing.
For in addition to the sabre cut, he had great ideas under that
blue-veined, broad, sick man's forehead of his.
"Yes," answered Teodoro, calmly, "our brother, whose duty it was to
collect the bodies of the plague-stricken, died two days ago, and the
oxen have not been in the town since. As for me, I too have been sick--a
mere _calentura_, though for a time the brethren feared that the plague
had laid its hand on me also; and as for those other two, they have
enough to do to keep up their ministrations among the living. To give
the last sacrament to the dying is, after all, more important than to
cover up the dead. At such times one has to remember how that once on a
time the Virgin's Son said, 'Let the dead bury their dead!'"
He was silent a little, as if composing a homily on this text.
"But all things work good to the chosen of God," he said. "To-night we
will make of these very dead an army to defend our little Queen--the
Lord's anointed. For in this matter I do not think as do the most of my
brothers of the Church. I am no Carlist, God be my witness!"
Rollo was still in a maze of wonder and doubt when they arrived at the
little stables attached to the long low building of the Hermitage and
began to harness the oxen to the cart. He prided himself on his
quickness of resource, but this was clean beyond him.
"One of us must abide here," continued the monk. "I am still sick unto
death, so that I greatly fear I can give you no help. Bleeding and this
_calentura_ together have left me without power in my old arms. But lend
me your pistols, of which you will have no need. I am an old soldier of
the wars of the Independence, and have not forgotten mine ancient skill
with the weapons of the flesh. Do not fear for the little Princess. Only
make such speed as you can."
And with the utmost haste the Basque instructed Rollo as to his
behaviour when he should reach the town, whilst at the same time he was
helping him into the dress of a Brother of Pity and arranging the hood
across his face.
"Hold your head well down," so ran the monk's rubric for the dread
office, "repeat in a loud voice '_Bring out your dead! Bring out your
dead!_' No more than that and no less. With the butt of your ox-staff
strike the doors whereon you see painted the red cross, and those that
remain will bring out whom the plague hath smitten."
The young man listened as in a dream. The oxen started at the friar's
gentle chirrup. The ox-staff was placed in Rollo's hand, and lo, he was
guiding the meek bent heads softly towards the town before he even
realised that he was now to encounter a foe far more terrible than any
he had ever faced in battle or at the rapier's point upon the field of
honour.
The trees were as solidly dark as black velvet above him. The oxen
padded softly over the well-trodden path. In the gloom he dropped his
goad, and only became conscious when he tried to pick it up that the
Basque had drawn over his hands a pair of huge gloves which reached down
almost to his wrists. These had been carefully tarred outside, and
doubtless furnished at least some protection against infection.
The great well-fed beasts, white oxen of the finest Castilian breed, a
gift of the Queen-Regent to the brethren, were under perfect control;
and though Rollo had only once or twice before handled the guiding
staff, he had not the least difficulty in conducting the cart towards
the town.
Indeed, so often had the animals taken the same road of late, that they
seemed to know their destination by instinct, and gave the tall young
monk in the hood no trouble whatever. The wheels, however, being of
solid wood of a style ancient as the Roman occupation, creaked with
truly Spanish _crescendo_ to the agony point. For in all countries
flowing with oil and wine no man affords so much as a farthing's worth
of grease for his waggon-wheels. But upon this occasion the lack was no
loss--nay, rather a gain. For even before Rollo's shout gained assurance
and sonorousness, the creaking of the wheels of the cart far-heard
scattered various groups of marauders about the streets of the town as
if it had been the wings of the angel of death himself.
"_Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!_"
Certainly it was a solemn and awful cry heard echoing through the
streets in the chilly hours of the night. Here and there at the sound a
lattice opened, and some bereaved one cried down to the monk to stop.
Then staggering down the staircase, lighted (it may be) by some haggard
crone with a guttering candle, or only stumbling blindly in the dark
with their load, the bearers would come. In a very few cases these were
two men, more frequently a man and a woman, and most frequently of all
two women.
"_Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!_"
"Brother, we cannot!" a shrill voice came from high above; "come up
hither and help us, for God's sake and the Holy Virgin's! She is our
mother, and we are two young maids, children without strength."
Rollo looked up and saw the child that called down to him. Another at
her shoulder held a lighted candle with a trembling hand.
"She is so little and light, brother," she pleaded, "and went so
regularly to confession. Brother Jeronimo gave her the sacrament but an
hour before she parted from us. Come up and help us, for dear Mary's
sake!"
It went to Rollo's heart to refuse, but he could not well leave his
oxen. He was a stranger to them and they to him; and his work, though
well begun, was yet to finish.
While he stood in doubt, his mind swaying this way and that, a figure
darted across to him from the opposite side of the street, a boy dressed
in a suit of the royal liveries, but with a cloak thrown about his
shoulders and a sailor's red cap upon his head.
"Give me the stick," he said in a muffled voice; "go up and bring down
the woman. If need be, I will help you."
Without pausing to consider the meaning of this curious circumstance,
where all circumstances were curious, Rollo darted up the staircase, his
military boots clattering on the stone steps, strangely out of harmony
with his priestly vocation.
He found the little maiden with the candle waiting at the door for him.
She appeared to be about eight years old, but struck him as very
small-bodied for her age. Her sister had remained within. She was
older--perhaps ten or twelve. She it was who had pleaded the cause of
the dead.
"Indeed, good brother," she began, "we did our best. We tried to carry
her, and moved her as far as the chair. Then, being weak, we could get
no farther. But do you help, and it will be easy!"
Rollo, growing accustomed to death and its sad victims, lifted the
shrouded burden over his shoulder without a shudder. He was in the mood
to take things as they came. The two little girls sank on their knees on
the floor, wailing for their lost mother, and imploring his blessing in
alternate breaths.
"Our mother--our dear mother!" they cried, "pray for us and her, most
holy father!"
"God in heaven bless you," Rollo said aloud in English, and strode down
the stairs. A knot of straggling gipsies furtively expectant stood about
the door. The cart was still in the middle of the street with its
attendant boy, in the exact place where Rollo had left it.
"Here, lend me a hand," he cried in a voice of command, as he emerged
into their midst with his white-wrapped burden.
But at the mere sight of the monk's habit and of the thing he carried on
his shoulder, the gipsies dispersed, running in every direction as if
the very plague-spectre were on their track. The boy in the red cap,
however, crossed the road towards him, and at the same moment the elder
of the little girls sobbingly opened the lattice, holding the candle in
her hand to take a last look at her mother.
The feeble rays fell directly on the boy's upturned face. At the sight
Rollo stumbled and almost fell with his burden. The youth put out his
hand to stay him. His fingers almost touched the dead.
"Hands off!" thundered Rollo, in fierce anger. "Concha Cabezos, how dare
you come hither?"
The boy looked up at the man and answered simply and clearly--
"Rollo, I came because _you_ dared!"