A hot July evening on the calm Biscayan coast of Spain.
The sun had disappeared like a globe of molten metal into the sapphire
sea, and now, in the breathless blood-red afterglow which tinged the
unruffled glassy waters away to the Atlantic, the whole populace of the
peaceful old-world town of Fonterrabia had come forth from their houses
to breathe again after the intense heat and burden of the blazing day.
Dusty green sun-shutters were being opened everywhere, while upon the
golden beach the clear waters hardly rippled, for the summer tide was
upon the turn. Across the bay lay a cluster of gaily-painted sardine
boats in reds and greens, awaiting a breeze, and along the sea-front, so
fiercely swept in winter, stood the quaint mediaeval houses, crumbling
and sun-blanched, with their wide overhanging roofs and many balconies,
palpitating with the heat, now rapidly receding. It had been a
scorching day in Spain.
In the stunted tamarisks which sprang, dust-covered and twisted, from
the yellow, shifting sands the grasshoppers still chirped merrily,
though it was sunset, and from the sun-blanched sea-front came of a
sudden the high, tuneful twanging of a mandoline, and a man's tenor
voice singing that ancient love-song which one hears everywhere in the
wine lands of the Guipuzcoa.
_Pase cantivo amor entus prisones_.
From the houses came forth the many mixed odours of the evening _cena_,
the appetising smell of rich _ollas_, mostly flavoured with garlic, be
it said, while from the shops which sold eatables there emanated that
faint and peculiar perfume which only those who have lived in hot
climates can know, and can justly appreciate.
Of a sudden the ancient bells of Santa Gadea, the old incense-laden,
Gothic church above the town, clanged forth again, as they had done so
many times a day through centuries, summoning the good people of
Fonterrabia to kneel before the high dark altar, with those long candles
and the wonderful brass chandelier above.
Now as the bells jangled forth an observer might, perhaps, have noticed
two men meet, as though entirely by accident, close to that obscure
little cafe "The Concha," which faces the sea.
On the pavement before the little place sat several men in their blue
_berets_, drinking wine and gossiping as all Spaniards must do.
The pair who had met were of quite different stamp.
One, who was about forty, of a refined but rather parvenu type, was
dressed in a well-cut suit of thin, dark grey material, and wore a straw
hat much ripened by the sun. He was idly smoking a long _valenciano_,
and betrayed surprise, though feigned, at the meeting. The other was a
typical fisherman in the blue blouse and blue _beret_, the national
headdress of all the Basque people. He still wore his heavy sea-boots,
in which, however, he walked jauntily, for his age was not more than
thirty, and his dark, handsome countenance was bright, enthusiastic, and
well bronzed.
On meeting, the man in the sun-ripened straw hat, and of much superior
class, turned quickly and walked beside him.
As he did so a tall Jesuit priest, a man with a swarthy, sinister face
and a long, rather shabby cassock--Father Gonzalo by name--chanced to
pass.
Carlos Somoza, the fisherman, saluted him reverently, but beneath his
breath he exclaimed in Spanish:
"May the Holy Madonna curse him for ever!"
"Why?" inquired the man in grey, whose name was Garcia Zorrilta, a
native of Toledo, who had come in secret from Madrid in order to meet
his fisherman friend.
"Because he may recognise you. There may be a hitch."
"Bah! There will be no hitch. There cannot be. You people here in the
country are so often faint-hearted. We in the capital are not. All
goes well, and success must be ours. It is but a simple matter of
waiting--waiting in patience."
"Yes--but Father Gonzalo is a man whom I do not like."
"Why? He looks really quite harmless. Who is he?"
"Nobody exactly knows," was the fisherman's reply, as they turned up the
narrow Calle Mayor, that old-world street of high, handsome houses,
mostly adorned with the crumbling coats-of-arms of the ancient
proprietors, and with balconies of wrought iron, and wide, projecting
roofs across the narrow footway. "He has been here for about four
months, yet he is not attached to Santa Gadea. Sometimes he visits the
sick, and all speak well of him. But both Cardona and Cienfuegos agree
with my suspicions that he is a Government agent, and that he is here to
find out all he can."
His companion grunted.
"_Dios_! If that is really so, then we must discover more about him,"
he said. "I trust, however, you are wrong, for, as you say, he might
recognise me again. And that would certainly be most awkward in my
position--as Deputy-Governor of the Province of Navarre."
"Yes, Excellency, that is why I cursed him," replied the intelligent
fisherman, with a smile. "At our meeting last Thursday, we discussed
whether Father Gonzalo should not meet with--well, meet with an
accident."
"No, no!" replied the other quickly, raising his voice because at the
moment a heavy cart, with its great wood disc wheels, drawn by two white
bulls and laden with wine barrels, rumbled past them slowly over the
cobbles. "Not here--that would never do, never! It would upset all our
plans! We must be cautious--_always cautious_. Watch him, and report
to me in the usual way--a letter to the Poste Restante in Madrid. I
will at once inquire all about this mysterious Father, and the reason he
has come to Fonterrabia. He may, as you suspect, be an agent of the
Ministry in disguise."
"We are quite certain that he is."
"If so, he must not remain here," declared the stranger decisively. "It
would certainly be extremely dangerous for you, and for all your
friends. The success of our _coup_ depends upon entire secrecy. Your
little circle here have ever been loyal and undaunted. There must be no
betrayal, as there was, you recollect, in Barcelona before the war."
"Barcelona is a city, Fonterrabia is only a little town, and hence it
should escape suspicion," was the educated young fisherman's remark.
"Ours we know to be a just and honest cause, and we all, as sons of
Spain, are each of us prepared willingly to sacrifice our lives if
necessary."
"Well said, Carlos! Our gallant leader, Ferdinand Contraras, who has
lately sacrificed most of his great fortune to secure the salvation of
Spain, is aware of your loyalty," Zorrilta assured him. "A little time
ago I was with him at one of our secret sessions at Toledo, and he
mentioned you, and your friends here--and praised you for your
patriotism as a true son of Spain."
"But the Englishman! What of him?" asked Carlos, as, strolling slowly,
they were approaching the great old church.
"That Englishman? Oh, yes, I know. You have serious and perhaps
foolish apprehensions in that direction," was the reply of the
Deputy-Governor of Navarre. "But, Carlos, you can rest assured that we
shall have no real trouble from that quarter. He will die--as the
others have done. And he will die very soon!"
"_You are quite certain of that_?" asked the fisherman eagerly.
"Quite. It is all arranged--an accident--a mystery--and nothing more,"
laughed the man from Madrid.
"The Englishman is our most serious enemy," declared Carlos, as yet only
half convinced.
"One by one the enemies of our own Spanish people have been swept away.
He will very soon follow them--rest assured. _De los enemigos los
menes_--the fewer enemies the better."
"But he may go back to England. We discussed it all here at our secret
meeting last Thursday."
"Well, and suppose he is in England, it does not matter. The avenging
hand of our great Contraras--who may _Dios_ protect--will strike him
there, never fear. Wherever he is, he cannot escape us. He will die,
and his death will be a mystery to the English police--as so many deaths
have been."
At that moment the pair found themselves passing the great old Gothic
door of Santa Gadea, which the sacristan had thrown open to the air for
an hour to clear the atmosphere of incense before closing for the night.
In the deep, cavernous silence the eternal red lamp showed before the
figure of the Virgin crowned, while far beyond were the long candles
burning before the altar, with its many steps.
The sight of those candles impelled the pious and enthusiastic Carlos to
suggest that they should enter the church, and there pray for the
success of their plans.
The Deputy-Governor of Navarre in the shabby straw hat smiled, and at
once agreed.
In all Latin countries the lower class have a habit of kneeling before
their favourite altar and craving blessings of the most paltry
character. In Italy, the _contadini_ ask that the winning numbers of
the _lotto_ or Government lottery may be revealed to them, or beg that
their attempt at theft may be successful. In Spain they implore divine
grace for a big catch of fish, or a fat harvest, so that they may enrich
themselves.
Cupidity is, alas, the mainspring of most of the prayers of Southern
Europe.
Garcia Zorrilta, political adventurer and wire-puller, who by reason of
his cunning and unscrupulousness had risen from clerk in a flour-mill in
Toledo to be Deputy-Governor of the Province of Navarre, knew how pious
was his friend the young fisherman, and, mock piety being part of his
profession, he was compelled to enter that great dark, over-ornamented
church, and there kneel with his companion before the altar.
What Zorrilta, one of the lieutenants of the great Contraras, prayed for
one does not know, but the prayer of Carlos the fisherman was for the
speedy death of the one man he most greatly feared, the man to whom he
had referred as "the Englishman."
But as he rose from his knees, he whispered under his breath:
"_Cuando no puede uno vestirse la piel del leon, vestase de la
vulpeja_--when you cannot clothe yourself in the lion's skin, put on
that of the fox."