BETRAYED.
"His name is Carstairs? Humph!" Juan said to me when the last sound of
the wheels had died away, and we no longer heard the rumbling of the
great Berlin upon the stones of the roughly paved street outside.
"Carstairs!"
"That is the name under which he was entered as a passenger in the
papers of _La Mouche Noire_," I answered. Then continued, looking at
the boy as a thought came to my mind. "Why! have you ever seen him
before, Juan, or have you any reason to suppose it is anything else
than Carstairs?"
For the thought that had come to me, the recollection which had
suddenly sprung to my mind, was the memory of the words Captain Tandy
had used when first we discussed the old man. "'Tis no more his name
than 'tis mine or yours."
Also I recalled that he had said, after meditation, that he was more
like to have been one Cuddiford than anybody else.
And now it seemed as though this stripling who had become my
companion, this boy whose years scarce numbered eighteen, also knew
something of him--disbelieved that his name was Carstairs.
"Do you think," I went on, "that it is something else? Cuddiford,
say?"
"Nay," he replied. "Nay. Not that. Not that. I have heard of
Cuddiford, though. I think he was brought to London and tried.
But--but--oh!" he exclaimed, breaking off, "it cannot be!"
"What cannot be?"
"If," he said, speaking very slowly, very gravely now, "if it were not
eight years since I last set eyes on him, when I was quite a child; if
he had a beard down over his chest instead of being close shaven, I
should say, Mervan, that this was the ruffian I have come to England
to seek; the villain who robbed me of the fortune my father left
me--the scoundrel, James Eaton."
"James Eaton!" I exclaimed. "The man you asked me about; thought I
might be like to know?"
"The same."
"Had he, this Eaton, been a buccaneer? for I make no doubt
that man has." I said. "The captain of _La Mouche Noire_ thought
so--and--and--his ravings and deliriums seemed to point that way."
"I know not," Juan said. "Eaton was a villain--yet--yet--I can scarce
suppose my father would have trusted him with a fortune if he had
known him to be such as that."
"Who was your father, Juan?"
"I--I," he answered, looking at me with those clear starry eyes--eyes
into which none could gaze without marvelling at their beauty--"I do
not know."
"You do not know!--yet you know he bequeathed a fortune to you and
left it in the man Eaton's hands."
"Mervan," he said, speaking quickly, "you must be made acquainted with
my history--I will tell it you. To-night, when we ride forth again;
but not now. See, our horses are ready, they are bringing them from
the stables. When we are on the road I will tell you my story. 'Twill
not take long. Come, let us pay the bill, and away."
"I will pay the bill," I said; "later we can regulate our accounts.
And as you say, we had best be on the road. For if that old man has
seen me, or if his black servant has done so--it--it--may be serious."
"Serious!" he repeated. "Serious! For _you_, my friend?" And as he
spoke there was in his voice so tender an evidence that he thought
nothing of any danger which could threaten him, but only of what might
befall me, that I felt sure, now and henceforth, of the noble,
unselfish heart he possessed. "Oh! not serious for you."
"Ay," I replied. "Ay. Precious serious! Remember, he knows I went
ashore in Lagos bay, that I sailed in the English fleet to Vigo. What
will happen, think you, if he warns them at Lugo that such a one as
I--an Englishman--who assisted at the taking of the galleons, is on
the road 'twixt here and there?"
"My God!" the boy exclaimed, thrusting his hand through the curls
clustering over his eyes--as he always did when in the least excited.
"It might mean----"
"Death," I said, "sharp and swift; without trial or time for shrift;
without----"
"But--whether he be Eaton--or--Carstairs--he is English himself."
"Ay, and so he is." I answered, "But be sure he has papers--also he
can speak Spanish well, will doubtless pass for a Spaniard. Also,
unless I am much mistook, had a cargo in one of those galleons--for
what else has he followed up here? For what--but the hopes of getting
back some of the saved spoil which has been brought to Lugo? That
alone would give him the semblance of being Spanish--would earn him
sympathy. Meanwhile, what should I be deemed? A spy! And I should die
the spy's death."
"What then to do next?" Juan asked, with a helpless, piteous look.
"There is but one thing for _me_ to do," I replied. "One thing alone.
As I told you ere we set out from Viana, my task is to ride on
straight, unerringly, to my goal--on to Flanders, through every
obstacle, every barrier; to crash through them, if heaven permits, as
Hopson crashed through that boom at Vigo--to reach Lord Marlborough or
to fall by the wayside. That is my duty, and I mean to do it."
"Mervan! Mervan!" he almost moaned.
"'Tis that," I went on. "But--think not I say it unkindly, with lack
of friendship or in forgetfulness of our new found _camaraderie_--for
you the need does not exist."
"What!"
"Hear me, I say, Juan. I speak but for your safety. For you there is
no duty calling; the risk does not exist. You are free--a traveller at
your ease."
"Silence!" he cried--his rich, musical voice ringing clear through the
vast _sala_ in the midst of which we now stood once more; and as he
spoke he raised his hand with a gesture of command. "Silence, I say!
By the body of my dead and unknown father, you do not know Juan
Belmonte. What! Set out with you and turn back at the first sign of
danger, and that a danger to you alone! Oh!" he exclaimed, changing
his tone again, emotional as ever. "Oh! Mervan, Mervan."
"I spoke but for your sake," I said, sorry and grieved to see I had
wounded him. "For that alone."
"Then speak no more, never again in such a strain. I said I would
never quit your side till Flanders is reached; no need to repeat those
words. Where you go I go--unless you drive me from your side."
And now it was my turn to exclaim against him, to cry: "Juan! you
think I should do that!" Yet even as I spoke, I could not but add:
"The danger to you as well as me may be terrible."
"No more," he said. "No more. We ride together until the end
comes--for one or both of us. Now, let us call the reckoning and
begone. The horses are there," and he strode to the window and made a
sign to the stable-man to be ready for us. Yet ere the landlord came,
he spoke to me again.
"Remember," he said, "that beyond our _camaraderie_, of which you have
spoken--ay! 'tis that and more, far more--beyond all this, I do
believe the old man whose face I saw as the great lamps shone full
on it is James Eaton. I have come to Europe, to this cold quarter of
the world, to find him. Do you think with him not half a league ahead
that I will be turned from the trail? Never! I follow that man to
Lugo--since his beard is gone I cannot pluck him by that, but I can
take his throat in my hands, thrust this through his evil heart," and
he rapped the quillon of his sword sharply as he spoke. Then added:
"As I will. As I will."
"You do not think he has recognised you, too? Seen you, though unseen
himself, while we have been in this house, passing through these
passages and corridors? as I doubt not either he saw me, or that negro
of his."
He thought a moment after I said this, then suddenly emerged from his
meditation and laughed a bright, ringing laugh, such as I had learnt
to love the hearing of.
"Nay," he replied. "Nay," and still he laughed, "He has not--could not
recognise me. No! No! No! When I present myself to him he--will--he
will be astonished."
And once more he laughed.
What a strange creature it was, I thought. As brave as a young lion;
as emotional and variable as a woman.
In answer to our pealing at the bell, to our calls also, the
landlord came in at last, not hurrying himself at all, as it seemed
to us, to bring the bill. Indeed, we had observed him, as we looked
forth from the window, engaged in a conversation with two of the
townspeople--shrouded in the long cloaks which Spaniards wear--their
heads as close together as if they were concocting a crime, though,
doubtless, talking of nothing more important than the weather.
"The bill," I said, "the bill. Quick. Our horses await us, and we have
far to ride."
"Ay," he replied. "Ay," and flinging down a filthy piece of paper on
the table, added: "There is the bill"; and he stood drumming his
fingers on the table while I felt for the coins with which to pay it.
Yet, even as I did so, I noticed that the fellow's manner was quite
changed from what it had been hitherto. His obsequiousness of the
morning had turned to morose surliness, which he took no trouble to
conceal. And, wondering if Juan, who was standing by, fastening his
spur strap, had observed the same thing, I glanced at him and saw his
eyes fixed on the man.
"There are two pistoles," I said, flinging them on the table. "They
will more than pay our addition; give the rest to the servants."
"Ay!" he replied. "Ay!" but with no added word of thanks.
"Is't not enough?" Juan asked.
"It is enough." Then he turned to me and said: "You are riding to Lugo
to-night?"
"That is our road," I replied, feeling my temper mount at the man's
changed manner. "What of it? Does that route displeasure you, pray?"
"Ho!" he grunted; "for that, it makes no matter to me." Then added:
"The horses are there," in so insolent a tone that I had a difficulty
in restraining myself from kicking or striking him. But I remembered
that, before all else, our safety had to be consulted, and that naught
should be done to cause delay to our progress; wherefore, I swallowed
my ire as best I might.
Yet, as we rode out of the courtyard, I saw at once that Juan's own
thoughts tended exactly in the same direction as mine, since he said
to me:
"That fellow has been told something by the old man--doubtless, that
you are English--that we both are. _Por Diôs!_ Suppose he has informed
him that you were in the English fleet!"
"I have no doubt that the man has been told so," I replied. "But no
matter. If it were not for you I should not care a jot."
Then once more I saw the dark eyes turned on me, and wished that I had
held my tongue--at least as regarded the latter part of my speech.
It seemed as if the town had gone to bed already. The great square was
deserted--except that the geese and pigs were still in it, huddled
together around the fountain, and severally cackled and grunted as we
trotted by them; down the long street, as we rode, we saw no signs of
any one being outside the doors.
Yet, as we neared the extremity of both the town and the street, and
came to where the latter ended off into a country road stretching
along a dreary-looking plain, over which the moon had risen, we saw
that such was not precisely the case. At the end of the street, that
which was the last building was a little, low, whitewashed chapel;
above its black door there was a figure in a little niche, with,
burning in front of it, a candle in a miserable red-glassed lantern;
and, feeble as were the rays cast forth from this poor, yet sacred,
lamp, they were sufficient to show us three men on horseback, all
sitting their steeds as rigidly as statues.
Judging by their long black cloaks and the tips of steel scabbards
which protruded beneath them, and which were plainly enough to be
seen, even in that dim, cloudy light, I imagined these men to be the
town gendarmerie--though doubtless they had some other name to
denominate them--and supposed this was a comfortable position which
they probably selected nightly. Also, the position was at both an exit
and an entrance to the place, therefore a natural one.
"A fine night, gentlemen," one remarked, and next I heard him say
something to Juan, which he replied to; in both of their remarks the
name of Lugo being quite distinct to my ears. But, beyond this,
nothing else passed, and, a few moments later, we were riding at a
smart trot across the dreary, moor-like plain.
"They asked," Juan said, in answer to my question, "if our destination
was Lugo. That was all."
"So I thought I heard," I said. And added: "Until we were past them I
felt not at all sure they might not be on the lookout for us. Might,
perhaps, intend to stop us. If Carstairs, or Eaton, or whatever his
name is, blew upon me to the landlord, he would be as like to do it to
the authorities also. However, we are in the open now, and all is well
so far."
By this time the moon was well up, and we could see the country along
which we were riding; could perceive that 'twas indeed a vast open
plain, with, however, as it seemed to me, a forest or wood ahead of
us, into which the road we were on trended at last. Could see, too,
the snow lying white all around, as far as the moor stretched, and
looking beneath the moonbeams like some dead sea across which no ship
was trying to find its way.
"A mournful spot," I said to Juan, as, half an hour later, we had
almost reached the entrance to the great forest, which we had observed
drawing nearer to us at every stride our beasts took; "'tis well we
made a full meal ere we set out. We are not very like to come across
another ere we reach Lugo."
I spoke as much to hearten up my companion as for any other reason,
since I feared that, in spite of his bravery and firm-fixed
determination to never leave my side, he must be very much alarmed at
the thoughts of what might happen to us ere we had gone many more
leagues.
But, remarking that he made no answer to my idle words, I glanced
round at him and perceived that his head was turned half way back
toward whence we had come, and that upon his face was a look of
intense eagerness--the look of one who listens attentively for some
sound.
"What is it, Juan?" I asked.
"Horses' hoofs on the road behind us," he said, "and coming swiftly,
too. Hark! do you not hear?"
And even as he spoke I did hear them. Heard also something else to
which my soldier's ears had made me very well accustomed: The clank of
steel-scabbarded swords against horses' flanks.
"It is the men we passed by the chapel," I said, "following us now.
Yet, if 'tis us they seek, why not stop us ere we left the town? They
could do as much against us there as here."
"They were but three then," the lad answered, calmly as though he
were counting guineas into his palm instead of the hoof-beats of those
on-coming horses; "now there are more--half a dozen, I should say. If
'tis us they follow, they have waited to be reinforced."
And I felt sure that he had guessed right, since the very thought
which he expressed had already risen in my own mind.