"THE COWL DOES NOT ALWAYS MAKE THE MONK."
We were drawing very near to Lugo now, as the wintry morning gave
signs of breaking; already the great spurs and cañons of the mountains
that flanked the east side of the river Minho began to shape
themselves into something tangible and distinct from the dull clouds
at their summits, and their peaks and crags to stand out clearly.
Also, we noticed that villages were scattered about at the base of
these mountains; observed lights twinkling in the windows of cottages,
and passed a bridge which spanned the river and carried on a road that
led from that east side to the western one; a road with, on it, a
great pedestal of rock, serving, as others which we had passed had
served us, as milestones and finger-posts; a road leading, as we
learnt, from another Viana, different from the one in Portugal at
which Juan and I had landed from the English fleet.
We were drawing very near.
For the last two or three hours we had ridden almost in silence, knee
to knee, all wrapped in our long cloaks, and with nothing breaking in
upon that silence but, sometimes, the hoot of an owl from out the
beeches and tamarisks which fringed the road, and sometimes the scream
of an eagle far up in the mountains, roused, perhaps, from his eyrie
by the clang of our animals' hoofs upon the hard-bound, frosty earth.
Yet some words had been spoken, too, ere we lapsed into this silence;
for, as our friend and deliverer had exclaimed, "You! You!" on hearing
that James Eaton had robbed Juan of whatever might have been left in
his care by the lad's dead father, Juan himself had quickly exclaimed:
"Is he known also to you, then?"
"He was once, long ago--ay, long ago!" Then he paused, as though
unwilling to tell more, though, a moment later, he said:
"And now you think he is ahead of us?--that we shall find him in
Lugo?"
"Without doubt," Juan and I answered, both speaking together, while
the former went on:
"He must halt for some time in Lugo, if only to get a change of
horses."
"'Tis my belief," I struck in, "he will do more than that. Judging
from what I learnt of him in the ship which brought us both from
Holland, Lugo is his destination, the end of his journey."
"Wherefore?" the man who had been "Father Jaime" asked.
"Because," I replied, "he was on his way to Cadiz, where, he thought,
as all did, that the galleons were going in. And he told me in a
frenzy, when he learnt that the English fleet was about in those
waters, that he had a fortune on board two of the galleons. Be sure,
therefore, he would follow them up to Vigo as soon as he could, after
being put ashore at Lagos and learning that much of the treasure had
been set ashore and then forwarded on to Lugo----"
"Would follow them here?" the other said. "Ha! Well, then, we shall
surely meet," and he laughed a little, very quietly, to himself. "Must
meet! And I--I shall have something to say to James Eaton--shall
recall myself to him. He will be pleased to see me!" and again he
laughed--though this time the laughter sounded grimly.
"I also shall have something to say to him," exclaimed Juan. "To----"
"Recall yourself to him also," the other broke in.
"Perhaps," the boy replied, "perhaps. We shall see, though it may not
be just at first."
"At first," said the other, taking him up, "let me present myself. I
assure you 'twill be best. Let me put in my claim to his attention.
Then you can follow suit."
"And I," I exclaimed, speaking now. "I, too, have something to settle
with Mr. James Eaton, if that be his name. I owe it to him that my
journey to Flanders has been interrupted by that scene upon the road,
owe it to him that I ran a very fair chance of never continuing that
journey further than a couple of leagues this side of Chantada.
"I believe, too, that it was he who drew the attention of a French ship
of war to the vessel which was carrying me and my intelligence to
Cadiz, as then supposed."
"How?" asked the ex-monk, "and why?"
"The reason wherefore," I replied, "might be because he suspected my
mission in some way. The manner in which he let the French ship know
of our whereabouts was probably by leaving open the dead light of his
cabin when he lay drinking, while all the others were closed so as to
avoid her. Oh! be sure," I continued, "when you two have done with him
I shall have an account also to make."
"We are three avengers," the other replied, with still that grim laugh
of his. "James Eaton will have other things to think of besides
getting back his treasure at Lugo, if it is there; for, when Señor
Belmonte and myself and you have finished with him--sir," he said,
breaking off and regarding me, "I do not know your name, how to
designate you. What may it be?"
"My name," I replied, "is Mervyn Crespin. May I ask by what we are to
address you? At present, at least, you do not style yourself 'Father
Jaime,' I apprehend."
"Nay," he said. "Nay--not until I don the cowl again. But, see, none
of us, I should suppose, are desirous of travelling through this
hostile country, entering this town of Lugo, which may bristle with
dangers to all of us, under our right names. Therefore--though even
thus 'tis not desirous that these names should be spoken more often
than needs--I will be Señor Jaime. There are Jaimes for second names,
as well as first."
"And," exclaimed Juan, entering at once into the spirit of the matter,
"there are Juans for second names as well as first, also. Therefore I
will be Señor Juan."
"And I," I said, "since I pretend to speak no Spanish, but am supposed
to be a Frenchman, will be Monsieur Crespin. That is a French name, as
well as English. There are scores of Crespins in Maine and Anjou--'tis
from there we came originally. 'Twill do very well."
So, this understanding arrived at, we rode on afterward in that
silence which I have told you of.
But now it was full day, cold, crisp and bright, with the sun topping
the mountains to our left and sending down fair, warm beams athwart
the river, which served to put some life into us, as well as a little
extra heat besides that which the motion of our horses and the glow of
their bodies had hitherto afforded us.
Also, we had left the forest now and entered a great plain which
rolled away to the west of those mountains, and of the river which
brawled and splashed at their base; a plain that in summer was,
doubtless, covered with all the rich vegetation for which the north of
Spain is famed, but that now stretched bare as the palm of a hand, and
recalled to my mind the fair Weald of Kent when winter's icy grip is
on it. Yet 'twas well covered with villages, some close together, some
a league or two leagues apart, and, under where the last spurs of the
Cantabrian mountains swept round directly to the west, we saw rise
before us the high walls of a town, with above them an incredible
amount of towers--we making out between twenty and thirty of these as
each stride of our animals brought us nearer to them.
"That," said Señor Jaime--as he was now to be called--though God only
knew what his right name was!--while our eyes regarded it from still
afar, "must be Lugo. Now let us decide for our plan of action. And,
first, as to getting into it."
"Do you make your entry," I asked, "as a gentleman travelling through
the land, or as priest--monk?"
"As monk!" he replied. "So best! I have other affairs here, besides
the desire of meeting my old friend, Eaton. Now, observe, this is what
I propose: You shall go first together--you will have no difficulty in
getting in, seeing that there is no frontier to cross. Nor will you be
asked for papers, since, once in, you will not get out again unless
you appear satisfactory to those who are there."
"We must get out again after a short rest, after a few hours," I
replied. "I make no manner of doubt that by now we are followed from
Chantada--if those who are behind us reach Lugo ere we have quitted
it, we shall be stopped beyond all doubt."
Señor Jaime paused a moment ere he answered; pondering, doubtless, on
this being the case. Then, speaking slowly, he said:
"If--if--'twere possible that you," looking at me, "and you,"
regarding Juan, "could also enter the town disguised; could appear as
something vastly different from what you are, you would be safe; we
would remain together. And--and--that would please me. We must not
part, having met as we have done," and his eyes rested particularly
upon Juan as he spoke, so that I felt sure he would far less willingly
part with him than with me; that it was of this bright, handsome boy
he was thinking most.
"I," exclaimed Juan, "would, above all other things but one--that one
the not parting company with Mervan, my friend!"--how softly he
murmured those words, "my friend!"--"stay here. For I am resolved to
bring to bar that villain, James Eaton. But how--how to do it? How to
enter the town disguised? We do not travel with masks and vizards, nor
could we assume them an we did. Also, how to change our appearance
sufficiently to be unrecognised by any of those behind?"
"For him," said Señor Jaime, addressing Juan, but looking at me, "'tis
easy enough. I can help him to change himself in a moment. I have
here," and he tapped the great valise strapped on to his horse's back,
"a second monk's gown, of another order than the one I wore--that was
a Carmelite's and, as you know, brown; the second is a Dominican's,
and white. The object which brings me to Europe--later you shall know
it--if it prospers, forced me to provide myself with more than one
disguise."
Then after pausing a moment, perhaps to judge of the effect of this
announcement on us, he went on: "Well, Monsieur Crespin! What do you
say? Will you be a monk and stay with Juan till he has seen his
beloved friend, James Eaton, or will you insist on his abandoning his
interview with that personage and riding post-haste to Flanders? Only
remember, if he and you do so, or if you do this alone, the chance is
also missed of your having a reckoning with that old man also."
Now I was sorely posed by this suggestion of his--sorely. For,
firstly, there was something bitterly distasteful to me, a soldier
and, I hoped, a brave one, in masquerading in any such guise as this
suggested. Also, I knew that it ill became me to tarry on my journey
back for any cause whatever, let alone a new formed friendship for
Juan Belmonte. My place was with the Cuirassiers, and with them I
ought to be--both the earls having hinted that there would be some
hard fighting ere long--while, as for revenging myself on the villain
whose name now seemed for a certainty to be Eaton, well! that might
easily be left to Señor Jaime and Juan. If they did not between them
very effectually confound that hoary-headed scoundrel, I should be
much astonished.
On the other hand, there were many things that made for my disguising
myself ere I entered Lugo, and, rapidly enough as I sat my horse
deliberating, those things ran through my mind. To begin with, it
would be full of Spanish and French soldiers and sailors, the runaways
from Vigo, who, undoubtedly, would have followed the bulk of the
treasure which had been removed from the galleons and transported
here; and it was possible that there might be some who would recognise
me, since I had played a pretty prominent part in the attack. It
might, therefore, be best that--little as this disguising of myself
was to my taste--I should do as Señor Jaime suggested.
Yet, all the same--and in the next moment--I decided that I would not
do this thing; for, besides that it was too repugnant to me, I knew
that it would be useless. And, knowing this, I said so, in spite of
the pleading, pitiful glances which Juan cast at me--glances which
plainly enough implored me to adopt the monk's dress, and thereby be
enabled to stay in Lugo until vengeance was wrought upon James Eaton.
"No," I said, turning to Señor Jaime, who sat quietly on my horse
awaiting my answer, while I studiously avoided Juan's gaze. "No, I
will not do it. I am a soldier, and as a soldier--at least as a man,
and not a monk--I will get through Spain and France. Besides, the
disguise would be useless."
"Wherefore?"
"In reply to that," I said, "let me ask you a question: What do you
intend to do with your horse? Monks do not ride, as a rule--in
Flanders I never saw one on horseback; also, your boots and great
steel spurs beneath the gown would betray you."
Now, he seemed very fairly posed at this, and for a moment bent his
head over his animal's mane, as though lost in thought. Then suddenly
he burst out into one of his deep, sonorous laughs, and exclaimed:
"Body of St. Iago! I never thought of that. Though, for the boots, it
matters not; I have the monkish sandals with me. And--and--perhaps the
horse can be smuggled into the town somehow, and with it the boots!
Ha! I must think!"
And again he became buried in thought; yet, a moment later, he spoke
once more:
"If you enter Lugo as you are," he said, "you will be taken for a
certainty. There are--there must be--many coming after us from behind,
from Chantada--they will describe you. Remember, you were not only
seen under the moon's rays during the fight in the wood, but in the
town previously. And, if you are taken, there is no hope for you!
Eaton has told that you are English--fought against the galleons at
Vigo. God! it means the garrote for both of you. You understand what
that is? An upright post, a hasp of iron around your neck and it, a
wheel to screw that hasp tight to the post--with your neck between
them!--and--and--your eyeballs out of your head--your tongue half a
foot long. That is what awaits you if you are taken."
"I will never be taken," I said, between my teeth, "to suffer that.
Bah! If I cannot, if we cannot, get out of the town again on the other
side, have I not this, and this?" and I touched my pistol holsters.
"They will be in my belt then."
After saying which I turned to Juan to ask him if he agreed with me,
and saw that Señor Jaime's ghastly description of the garrote had made
him as pale as death.
"What think you, comrade?" I asked. "Is it not best that you and I
forego our vengeance on this man, Eaton, and push on as fast as may
be, leaving him to our friend here, who also seems to have a reckoning
to make--who appears, also, one who can extort it? Or will you
disguise yourself and stay behind?"
"Nay. Nay," he answered. "Where you go, I go. And--God knows I am no
poltroon--yet--yet--I could not suffer that. I have seen it in the
Indies--oh!" and he put his hands to his eyes, letting his reins fall.
"Not that, not that!"
"Will you push on with me, then, foregoing your vengeance?"
"Yes. Yes, since my vengeance risks such death as that. But," turning
to the other, "you proposed a disguise for me. Was I to be a monk,
too?"
"Nay," he said. "Nay. But you are a brave, handsome lad--I thought
that in some way we might have transformed you into a woman. You would
make a presentable one."
"A woman!" he echoed, looking mighty hot and raging at the suggestion.
"A woman!--I, who have fought by Mervan's side! Never. Also," he
added, after somewhat of a pause, "it is not as a woman that I intend
to meet James Eaton, if at all; but as a man demanding swift justice.
A woman would be like to get none of that from him."