"Ah, yes; I believe I am--but it won't matter much for once; I'll call

on the dean to-morrow, and explain."

"No, no, Horace, that won't do; you and Mr Hawthorne must go home like

good boys," said Flora, with a smile only half as merry as usual, "and

Mary and I will persuade Mr Hurst to stay and go to the theatre with

us."

"Oh! confound it!"--Horace began.

"Hush! here comes papa; remember this is my arrangement; you ought to be

very much obliged, instead of beginning to swear in that way; I'm sure

Mr Hawthorne is very grateful to me for taking so much interest in the

question of his breaking his neck, if you are not. Oh! papa," she

continued, "do you know that we shall lose all our beaux to-night; they

have some horrid supper party to go back to, and we shall have to go to

the play ourselves!"

Most of the Squire's sympathies were at this moment absorbed in the fact

that dinner was already four minutes late, so that he had less to spare

for his daughter's disappointment than Mrs Leicester, who on her arrival

took up the lamentation with all her heart. She attacked her nephew at

once upon the subject, whose replies were at first wavering and

evasive, till he caught Flora's eye, and then he answered with a dogged

sort of resolution, exceedingly amusing to me who understood his

position, and at last got quite cross with his aunt for persisting in

her entreaties. I declared, for my part, that I was dependent on

Horace's movements; that, if I could possibly have anticipated the

delightful evening which had been arranged for us, every other

arrangement should have given way, &c. &c.; when Hurst's reappearance

turned the whole force of Mrs Leicester's persuasions upon him, backed,

too, as she was by both her daughters. "Won't _you_ stay, Mr Hurst? Must

you go too? Will you be so shabby as to leave us?" How could any man

stand it? William Wellington Hurst could not, it was very plain. At

first he looked astonished; wondered why on earth we couldn't all stay;

then protested he couldn't think of letting us go home by ourselves; a

piece of self-devotion which we at once desired might not be thought of;

then hesitated--he was meditating, no doubt, on the delight of

driving--how was he to get home? the inglorious occupant of the inside

of a drag; or the solitary tenant of a fly, (though I suggested he might

drive that if he pleased;) Couldn't Leicester go home, and I and he

follow together? I put in a decided negative; he looked from Mrs

Leicester's anxious face to Flora's, and surrendered at discretion. We

were to start at eight precisely in the tandem, and Miller and his

party, who were sure to wait for the fly, were to pick up Mr Wellington

Hurst as a supernumerary passenger at some hour unknown. And so we went

to dinner. Mrs Leicester marched off in triumph with her new capture, as

if fearful he might give her the slip after all, and committed Flora to

my custody. I was charitable enough, however, in consideration of all

circumstances, to give up my right of sitting next to her to Horace, and

established myself on the other side of the table, between Mrs Leicester

and her younger daughter; and a hard post I had of it. Mary would not

talk at all, and her mamma would do nothing else; and she was one of

those pertinacious talkers, too, who, not content with running on

themselves, and leaving you to put in an occasional interjection,

inflict upon you a cross-examination in its severest form, and insist

upon a definite and rational answer to every question. However, availing

myself of those legitimate qualifications of a witness, an unlimited

amount of impudence, and a determination not to criminate myself, I got

on pretty tolerably. Who did I think her daughter Flora like? I took the

opportunity of diligently examining that young lady's features for about

four minutes--not in the least to her confusion, for she scarcely

honoured me with a glance the whole time--and then declared the

resemblance to mamma quite startling. Mary? Oh, her father's eyes

decidedly; upon which the squire, whose pet she appeared to be--I

suppose it was the contrast between her quietness and Mrs Leicester's

incessant fidgeting that was so delightful--laughed, and took wine with

me. Then she took up the subject of my private tastes and habits. Was I

fond of riding? Yes. Driving? Pretty well. Reading? Very. Then she

considerately hoped that I did not read much by candle-light--above all

by an oil-lamp--it was very injurious. I assured her that I would be

cautious for the future. Then she offered me a receipt for eye-water, in

case I suffered from weakness arising from over-exertion of those

organs--declined, with thanks. Hoped I did not read above twelve hours

a-day: some young men, she had heard, read sixteen, which she considered

as really inconsistent with a due regard to health. I assured her that

our sentiments on that point perfectly coincided, and that I had no

tendency to excesses of that kind. At last she began to institute

inquiries about certain under-graduates with whose families she was

acquainted; and the two or three names which I recognised being hunting

men, I referred her to Hurst as quite _au fait_ in the sporting circles

of Oxford, and succeeded in hooking them into a conversation which

effectually relieved me.

Leicester, as I could overhear, had been still rather rebellious against

going home before the play was over, and was insisting that his being in

college by nine was not really material; nor did he appear over-pleased,

when, in answer to an appeal from Flora, I said plainly, that the

consequences of his "knocking in" late, when under sentence of strict

confinement to the regular hour, might not be pleasant--a fact, however,

which he himself, though with a very bad grace, was compelled to admit.

At last the time arrived for our party to separate: Horace and I to

return to Oxford, and the others to adjourn to see _Richard the Third_

performed at the B---- theatre, under the distinguished patronage of the

members of the H---- Hunt. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and as

Hurst accompanied us to the stable-yard to "start us," as he

complacently phrased it, it was clear that he was suffering, like a

great many unfortunate individuals in public and private life, under an

overweening sense of his own importance. "You'll have an uncommon

pleasant drive of it; upon my word you will," he remarked; "it wouldn't

do for me to say I would not stay, you know, as Miss Leicester--Mrs

Leicester, that is--seemed to make such a point of it; but really"----

"Oh, come, Hurst," said I, "don't pretend to say you've made any

sacrifice in the matter, I know you are quite delighted; I'm sure I

should have liked to stay of all things, only it would have been uncivil

to our friend here to send him home by himself from his own party."

"Oh! hang it, I don't mean to call it a sacrifice; I have no doubt I

shall have a very pleasant evening; only I wish we could all have

stayed, and driven home together afterwards."

"You may keep Hawthorne with you now, if you like," said Horace, who was

not in the best of tempers; "I can take the horses home myself."

"No, no, that would be hardly fair," said I.

"Oh! no--off with you both," said Hurst; "stay, Leicester, you'll find

the grey go more pleasantly if you drive him from the cheek; I'll alter

it in a second."

"Have the goodness just to let them alone, my good fellow; as I'm to

drive, I prefer putting them my own way, if you have no objection."

"Well, as you please; good-night."

"Miller's coming to my rooms when he gets home; if you like to look in

with him, you'll find some supper, I dare say."

Horace continued rather sulky for the first few miles, and only opened

to anathematize, briefly but comprehensively, steeple-chases, tandems,

deans and tutors, and "fellows like Hurst." I thought it best to let him

cool down a little; so, after this ebullition, we rattled on in silence

as long as his first cigar lasted.

"Come," said I, as I gave him a light, "we got rid of our friend's

company pretty cleverly, thanks to your cousin."

"Ay, I told you I'd take care of that; ha! ha! poor Hurst! he little

bargained, when he ordered his team, how precious little driving he was

to get out of it; a strong instance of the vanity of human expectations.

I wish him joy of it, stuck up in an old barn, as I suppose he is by

this time, gaping at a set of strolling players; how Flora will laugh at

him! I really shouldn't wonder if she were to tell him, before the

evening is over, how nicely he has been humbugged, just for the fun of

it!"

"At all events," said I, "I think we must have a laugh at him to-night

when he comes home; though he's such a good-tempered fellow, it's rather

a shame, too."

It was very plain, however, that it was not quite such a good joke to

Master Horace himself as he was trying to make out; and that, in point

of fact, he would have considerably preferred being seated, as Hurst

probably was at that moment, by his pretty cousin's side in the B----

theatre, wherever and whatever that might chance to be, (even with the

full expectation of being laughed at afterwards,) to holding the reins

of the best team that ever was turned out of Oxford.

We reached Oxford just in time to hear the first stroke of "Old Tom." By

the time I joined Leicester in his rooms, supper was ready, and most of

the party assembled. The sport of the day was duly discussed; those who

knew least about such matters being proportionately the most noisy and

positive in giving their opinions. One young hero of eighteen, fresh

from Winchester, in all the importance of a probationary Fellow,

explained for our benefit, by the help of the forks and salt-cellars,

the line which the horses undoubtedly ought to have taken, and which

they did not take; until one of his old schoolfellows, who was present,

was provoked to treat us to an anecdote of the young gentleman's first

appearance in the hunting-field--no longer ago than the last term--when

he mistook the little rough Scotch terrier that always accompanied

----'s pack for the fox, and tally-ho'd him so lustily as to draw upon

himself sundry very energetic, but not very complimentary, remarks from

the well-known master of the hounds. By degrees Leicester recovered his

usual good-humour; and supper passed over, and several songs had been

sung with the usual amount of applause, (except one very sentimental one

which had no chorus,) and we had got pretty deep into punch and

politics, without Hurst's name having once been mentioned by either of

us. A knock at the oak, and in walked Fane.

"So you're come back at last?" said Horace. "Sit down, if you can find

room. Allow me to introduce your left-hand neighbour--Powell of Merton,

Fane, one of our brightest ornaments; quite the _spes gregis_ we

consider him; passed his little-go, and started a pink only last week;

give him a glass of punch. Perhaps you are not aware we've been drinking

your health. But, by the way, Fane, where's our friend Wellington?"

"Who?" said Fane; "what on earth are you talking about?"

"Wellington Hurst; didn't you bring him home with you?"

"Certainly not; didn't _you_ bring him home?"

"No; Miller promised me he should have a seat inside your drag, because

we could not wait for him; did you stay to the play?"

"Yes, and capital fun it was; by the way, the last time I saw your

friend Hurst was mounted up in a red baise place that was railed off for

the patrons and patronesses, as they called them; there he was in the

front row, doing the civil to a very odd-looking old dowager in bright

blue velvet, with a neck like an ostrich."

"Thank you," said Leicester, "that's my aunt."

"Well, on that ground, we'll drink her health," said Fane, whose

coolness was proverbial. "There was Hurst, however, sitting between her

and an uncommonly pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes, dressed in--let

me see"--

"Never mind; it was one of my cousins, I suppose," interposed Horace,

who was engaged in lighting a cigar at the candle, apparently with more

zeal than success.

"Well, we'll drink _her_ health for her own sake, if you have no

particular objection. I've no doubt the rest of the company will take my

word for her being the prettiest girl on the ground to-day; Hurst would

second me if he were here, for I never saw a man making love more

decidedly in my life."

"Stuff!" said Horace, pitching his cigar into the fire; "pass that

punch."

"What jealous, Leicester?" said two or three of the party--"preserved

ground, eh?"

"Not at all, not at all," said Horace, trying with a very bad grace to

laugh off his evident annoyance; "at all events, I don't consider Hurst

a very formidable poacher; but what I want to know is, how he didn't

come home with Miller and your party?"

"Miller said he was coming up directly, so you can ask him; I really

heard nothing of it. Hark, there are steps coming up the staircase now."

It proved to be Miller himself, followed by the under-porter, a

good-tempered fellow, who was the factotum of the under-graduates at

late hours, when the ordinary staff of servants had left college for the

night.

"How are you, Leicester?" said he, as he walked straight to the little

pantry, or "scouts' room," immediately opposite the door, which forms

part of the usual suite of college apartments; "come here, Bob."

"Where's Hurst?" was Horace's impatient query.

"Wait a bit," replied Miller from inside, where he was rattling the

plates in the course of investigating the remains of the supper--he was

not the man to go to bed supperless after a twelve miles' drive. "Here,

Bob," he continued, as he emerged at last with a cold fowl--"take this

fellow down with you, and grill him in no time; here's a lump of

butter--and Harvey's sauce--and--where do you keep the pickled

mushrooms, Leicester? here they are--make a little gravy; and here,

Bob--it's a cold night--here's a glass of wine; now you'll drink Mr

Leicester's health, and vanish."

Bob drank the toast audibly, floored his tumbler of port at two gulps,

and departed.

"Now," said Horace, "do just tell me--what _is_ become of Hurst? how

didn't you bring him home?"

"Confound it!" said Miller, as he looked into all the jugs--"no whiskey

punch?"

"Oh, really I forgot it; here's bishop, and that brandy punch is very

good. But how didn't he come home with you?"

"Forgot it!" soliloquized Miller pathetically.

"Forgot it? how the deuce came you to forget it? and how will he come

now?" rejoined Horace.

"How came _you_ to forget it? I was talking about the whiskey punch,"

said Miller, as we all roared with laughter. "I couldn't bring Hurst,

you know, if he wouldn't come. He left the playhouse even before we did,

with some ladies--and we came away before it was over--so I sent up to

tell him we were going to start in ten minutes, and had a place for him;

and the Boots came down and said they had just had supper in, and the

gentleman could not possibly come just yet. Well, I sent up again, just

as we were ready harnessed, and then he threatened to kick Boots down

stairs."

"What a puppy!" said Horace.

"I don't quite agree with you there: I don't pretend to much sentiment

myself, as you are all aware; but with a lady _and_ a supper in the

case, I should feel perfectly justified in kicking down stairs any Boots

that ever wore shoes, if he hinted at my moving prematurely."

Miller's unusual enthusiasm amused us all except Horace. "Gad," said he,

at last, "I hope he won't be able to get home to-night at all!" In this

friendly wish he was doomed to be disappointed. It was now verging

towards twelve o'clock; the out-college members of the party had all

taken their leave; Miller and Fane, having finished their grilled

chicken at a little table in the corner, had now drawn round the fire

with the three or four of us who remained, and there was a debate as to

the expediency of brewing more punch, when we heard a running step in

the Quadrangle, which presently began to ascend the staircase in company

with a not very melodious voice, warbling in a style which bespoke the

owner's high state of satisfaction.

"Hush! That's Hurst to a certainty!"

"Queen of my soul, whose starlike eyes

Are all the light I seek"--

(Here came an audible stumble, as if our friend were beginning his way

down again involuntarily by half-a-dozen steps at a time.) "Hallo!

Leicester! just lend us a candle, will you? The lamp is gone out, and

it's as dark as pitch; I've dropped my hat."

"Open the door, somebody," said Horace; and Hurst was admitted He looked

rather confused at first, certainly; for the sudden transition from

outer darkness into a small room lighted by a dozen wax-candles made him

blink, and our first greeting consisting of "ha-ha's" in different keys,

was perhaps somewhat embarrassing; but he recovered himself in a second.

"Well," said he, "how are you all? glad you got home safe, Hawthorne;

hope I didn't keep you waiting, Miller; you got the start of me, all of

you, coming home; but really I spent an uncommon jolly evening."

"Glad to hear it," said Leicester, with a wink to us.

"Yes;--'pon my life; I don't know when I ever spent so pleasant a one;"

and, with a sort of chuckle to himself, Hurst filled a glass of punch.

"What did you think of _Richard the Third_?" said I.

"Oh! hang the play! there might have been six Richards in the field for

all I can say: I was better engaged."

"Ay," said Fane, "I rather fancy you were."

"We had a very pleasant drive home," said I, willing to effect a

diversion in favour of Leicester, who was puffing desperately at his

cigar in a savage kind of silence;--"and a capital supper afterwards; I

wish you had been with us."

"And I had a very jolly drive too: I got a gig, and galloped nearly all

the way; and a very good supper, too, before I started; but I won't

return your compliment; we were a very snug party without you. Upon my

word, Leicester, your eldest cousin is one of the very nicest girls I

ever met: the sort of person you get acquainted with at once, and so

very lively and good-humoured--no nonsense about her."

"I'll make a point of letting her know your good opinion," replied

Horace, in a tone conveying pretty plainly a rebuke of such presumption.

But it was lost upon Hurst.

"Probably you need not trouble yourself," said Fane; "I dare say he has

let her know it himself already."

"No--really no"--said Hurst, as if deprecating any thing so decided;

"but Miss Leicester _is_ a _very_ nice girl; clever, I should say,

decidedly; there's a shade of one can hardly call it rusticity--about

her manner; but I like it, myself--I like it."

"Do you?"--said Horace, very drily.

"Oh! a season in London would take all that off." And Hurst began to

quaver again--

"Queen of my soul, whose"--

"I'll tell you what," said Horace, rising, and standing with his back to

the fire, with his hands under his coat-tails--"You may not be aware of

it, but you're rather drunk, Hurst."

"Drunk!" said Hurst; "no, that's quite a mistake; three glasses, I think

it was, of champagne at supper; and you men have sat here drinking punch

all the evening; if any body's drunk, it's not me."

Hurst's usually modest demeanour was certainly so very much altered as

to justify, in some measure, Leicester's supposition; but I really

believe Flora Leicester's bright eyes had more to answer for in that

matter than the champagne, whether the said three glasses were more or

less.

However, as Horace's temper was evidently not improving, Miller, Fane,

and myself wished him good-night, and Hurst came with us. We got him

into Fane's rooms and then extracted from him a full history of the

adventures of that delightful evening, to our infinite amusement, and

apparently to his own immense satisfaction. It was evident that Miss

Flora Leicester had made an impression, of which I do not give that

young lady credit for being in the least unconscious.

The impression, however, like many others of its kind, soon wore off, I

fancy; for the next time I saw Mr Wellington Hurst, he had returned to

his usual frame of mind, and appeared quite modest and deferential; but

it will not perhaps surprise my readers any more than it did myself,

that Horace was never fond of referring to our drive to the

steeple-chase at B----, and did not appear to appreciate, as keenly as

before, the trick we had played Hurst in leaving him behind; while all

the after-reminiscences of the latter bore reference, whenever it was

possible, to his favourite date--"That day when you and I and Leicester

had that team to B---- together."

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA.

PART III.

"Como un pobre condenado

Agui vivo entre cadenas,

A mi xabega amarrado,

Tendido en esta carena."

_Cancion Andatuza._

In one of the wildest and most secluded of the valleys formed by the

sierra of Urbasa and its contiguous ranges, stands a small cluster of

houses, differing in few respects from the nine or ten hundred villages

and hamlets scattered over the fertile vales and rugged hills of

Navarre, but of which, nevertheless, a brief description may not be

without interest. The village in question is composed of some five-score

houses, for the most part the habitations of peasants, who earn their

living by labour in the fields of the neighbouring proprietors, or, many

of them, by the cultivation of small portions of land belonging to

themselves. Nothing can be more uniform than the arrangement and

construction of Navarrese houses of this class, which are well adapted

to the wants and tastes of the race of men who inhabit them, and to the

extremes of heat and cold for which the climate of that part of Spain is

remarkable. The walls are generally of stone, of which the neighbouring

mountains yield an abundant supply; glass windows are rare, and replaced

by wooden shutters; the door, usually of oak, and of great solidity, is

hung in a low archway of granite blocks. The entrance is into a small

clay-floored room or vestibule, answering a variety of purposes. Here

are seen implements of agriculture--sometimes a plough, or the heavy

iron prongs with which the Basques and Navarrese are accustomed

laboriously to turn up the ground in places too steep for the use of

oxen; mules or ponies stand tethered here, waiting their turn of duty in

the fields, or on the road; and here sacks of vegetables and piles of

straw or maize-ears are temporarily deposited, till they can be placed

in the granary, usually in the upper part of the house. At the further

end, or on one side of this vestibule, a door opens into the stable or

cowshed, and on the other side is the kitchen, which the family

habitually occupy. An immense arched chimney projects far into the

last-named apartment, and under it is a stone hearth, slightly raised

above the tiled floor. Around, and upon this tiled hearth, during the

long winter evenings, the peasant and his family establish themselves;

the room is lighted by a glimmering oil-lamp, and, more effectually, by

the bright wood-fire, which crackles and sparkles as the rain-drops or

snow-flakes occasionally fall through the aperture of the chimney. The

men smoke and talk, and repose themselves after the fatigues of the day;

the women spin and attend to the pots of coarse red earth, in which

various preparations of pork, eggs, or salt-fish, with beans and

_garbanzos_, (a sort of large pea of excellent flavour,) the whole

plentifully seasoned with oil and red pepper, stew and simmer upon the

embers. Above stairs are the sleeping and store rooms, the divisions

between which often consist of slight walls of reeds, plastered over and

whitewashed.

Besides the humble dwellings above described, many of these mountain

villages contain two or three houses of larger size and greater

pretension, belonging to hidalgos or country gentlemen, who own estates

in the neighbourhood. Independently of their superior dimensions, glass

in the windows, painted doors and shutters, and the arms of the family

carved in stone above the entrance, perhaps a few valuable pictures by

the old Spanish masters, decorating the walls of the apartments,

distinguish these more aristocratic mansions, which, although spacious,

and of dignified aspect, frequently afford little more real comfort

than the cottages above which they tower.

It was early on an August morning, about a fortnight subsequently to the

rescue of Count Villabuena, that a man in an officer's uniform, and who,

to judge from the stripe of gold-lace on his coat cuff, held the rank of

major, knocked at the door of a house of the description last referred

to. The applicant for admission was about forty years of age, of middle

stature, broad-shouldered and powerful, and his countenance, the

features of which were regular, might have been called handsome but for

a peculiarly lowering and sullen expression. Apparently he had just come

off a journey; his boots and dress were covered with dust, his face was

unshaven, and he had the heated, jaded look of a man who has passed in

the saddle the hours usually allotted to repose.

"Is Count Villabuena quartered here?" said he to the servant who opened

the door.

"He is, Señor Comandante," replied the man.

The stranger entered the house, and was ushered into a large apartment

on the first floor. He had waited there but a few minutes, when the door

of an adjoining chamber opened, and Count Villabuena, wrapped in a

morning-gown, and seemingly just out of bed, made his appearance.

"Don Baltasar!" exclaimed the Count, in a tone of some surprise, on

beholding his early visitor.

"As you see, cousin," replied the new-comer; "and glad enough, I assure

you, to be at the end of his ride, although the bearer of no very

welcome news."

"Whence come you?" said the Count, "and what are the news you bring?"

"From Pampeluna, or at least from as near to it as I could venture. The

news I bring are bad enough. Yesterday morning, at this hour, Juan

Orrio, and the four other officers who were taken in the skirmish near

Echauri, were shot to death on the glacis of Pampeluna."

"Bad news indeed!" said the Count, starting, in visible perturbation,

from the chair on which he had seated himself. "Most unfortunate, just

at this time."

"At this or at any other time it would hardly be welcome intelligence to

the general," observed Don Baltasar. "Orrio was one of the first who

joined him after he took command of the king's army, and he greatly

valued him both as a friend and an officer."

"True," replied Villabuena; "but at this moment I have especial reasons

for regretting his death. Have you communicated it to Zumalacarregui?"

"Not yet. I have been to his quarters; he rode out at daybreak, and has

not returned. My horse is dead beat, and as the direction the general

took is not exactly known, I think it better to wait his coming than to

follow him. Meanwhile, cousin, a cup of chocolate will be no unwelcome

refreshment after the night's march."

Villabuena rang a hand-bell that lay upon the table, and gave his orders

to the servant who answered the summons. Some smoking chocolate and

other refreshments, and a small brazen cup containing embers for

lighting cigars, were brought in, and the Major applied himself

vigorously to the discussion of his breakfast.

Major Baltasar de Villabuena, that distant relative of the Count to whom

reference has been already made as the intended husband of his daughter,

was a soldier of fortune who had entered the army at an early age, and

at the outbreak of the Carlist insurrection was captain in a regiment of

the line. He might have risen higher during his twenty years' service,

but for his dogged and unpleasant temper, which ever stood in the way of

his advancement. The death of the Count's sons, although it constituted

him heir to the Villabuena property, made but little real difference in

his prospects. The Count was only twelve or fifteen years older than

himself, and likely to live nearly as long. The cousins had not met for

many years, and had never been on intimate or even friendly terms; and

it was therefore with joyful surprise, that, a few days after the

commencement of the war, Don Baltasar received a letter from the Count,

expressing a wish to see and know more of the man who was to inherit his

title and estates. The letter informed him of what he already knew, that

the Count had espoused the cause of Charles V.; and it further urged him

to throw up his commission in the army of the usurping government, and

to hasten to join his kinsman, who would receive him with open arms.

Some vague hints concerning a nearer alliance between them, were more

than was wanting to raise Don Baltasar's hopes to the highest pitch, and

to induce him instantly to accept the Count's propositions. He at once

resigned his commission and joined the Carlists, by whom he was made

heartily welcome; for men of military experience were then scarce

amongst them. Don Baltasar was a bold and efficient officer, and the

opportunity was favourable for exhibiting his qualities. The Count was

at first much pleased with him; and soon afterwards, when the Carlists

were temporarily dispersed, and the insurrection was seemingly at an

end, Major Villabuena accompanied his cousin to France, and was

presented to Rita as her intended husband. But his unpolished manners

and brutal abruptness made a most unfavourable impression upon the lady,

who did not attempt to conceal her repugnance to her new suitor. The

Count himself, who, amidst the bustle and activity of the life he had

recently led, had overlooked or not discovered many of his kinsman's bad

qualities, was now not slow in finding them out; and although the

proposed marriage was of his own planning, he began almost to

congratulate himself on his prudence in having made the promise of his

daughter's hand contingent on her encouragement of her cousin's

addresses. That encouragement there appeared little probability of

Baltasar's obtaining. The gallant major, however, who entertained an

abundantly good opinion of his own merits, instead of attributing the

young lady's dislike to any faults or deficiencies of his own, laid it

at the door of her attachment to Herrera, of which he had heard

something from the Count; and he vowed to himself, that if ever he had

the opportunity, he would remove that obstacle from his path, and make

short work of it with the beardless boy who stood between him and the

accomplishment of his wishes.

Whilst the Major satisfied the keen appetite which his night-ride had

given him, Count Villabuena restlessly paced the room, his features

wearing an expression of anxiety and annoyance.

"You take this news much to heart, Count," said Baltasar. "I knew not

that Orrio or any other of the sufferers was your friend."

"None of them were particularly my friends," replied the Count; "nor

does my regret for their fate exceed that which I should feel for any

other brave and unfortunate men who might lose their lives in the

service of his majesty. But their death at this precise conjuncture is

most unfortunate. You have heard me speak of Luis Herrera?"

"Herrera!" repeated Baltasar, with affected unconcern; "is not that the

name of your former protégé, the love-stricken swain who ventured to

aspire to the hand of your fair daughter?"

"The same," replied the Count, gravely.

"He is with the enemy," said Baltasar; "holds a commission in a cavalry

regiment now in our front. I trust to fall in with him some day, and to

exchange a sabre-cut in honour of the bright eyes of my charming

cousin."

"He would find you employment if you did," replied the Count. "He is a

brave lad and a skilful soldier. But at present there is small chance of

your meeting him, at least with a sword in his hand. He was taken

prisoner a few days ago, and is now in this village."

"Ha!" exclaimed Baltasar, his dark deep-set eyes emitting a gleam of

satisfaction. "And what does Zumalacarregui propose to do with him?"

"Up to yesterday, I trusted to procure his release. The general seemed

half inclined to grant it, as well as that of the other captive

officers, if they would take an oath not to bear arms against the king.

A few of them had agreed to give the required pledge; and although the

others, including Herrera, obstinately refused, I was not without hopes

of overcoming their repugnance. But last evening news came of the

excesses that Rodil's division has been committing in Biscay, burning

houses, ill-treating the peasantry, and refusing quarter to prisoners.

This greatly exasperated the general, and he talked of recommencing the

system of reprisals, which, since the removal of Quesada from the

command of the Christino forces, has been in some degree abandoned."

"You are particularly interested, then, in the fate of this Herrera?"

said Baltasar, with a searching glance at the Count.

"I am so for various reasons. His father and myself, although of

different political creeds, were old friends; the son was long an inmate

of my house, and I at one time thought of him as my future son-in-law.

If he has taken up arms against his rightful sovereign, it is from a

mistaken sense of duty, and not, as many have done, with a view to

personal gain and advantage. Moreover, during my recent short captivity,

of which you have probably heard, he twice saved my life; once at great

risk and with positive detriment to himself."

"Numerous and sufficing motives," said Baltasar, with a slight sneer.

"Undoubtedly they are," replied the Count; "and you now see why I regret

your arrival and the intelligence you bring. The general's indignation

at the slaughter of Orrio and his companions will place the lives of

Herrera and the other prisoners in great jeopardy."

"I am sorry," said Baltasar, in a tone which belied his professed

concern, "that my arrival should interfere with your plans, and endanger

the life of your friend."

"I can scarcely believe in your regrets, cousin," replied the Count, "or

that you will grieve for the death of one whom you regard as rival. But

again I tell you that Herrera can never be the husband of my daughter;

and although you have the impression that he is now one of the chief

obstacles to your success with Rita, time cannot fail to obliterate her

childish attachment. Be sure that you will do more towards winning her

favour by acting generously in the present circumstances, than if you

were to take this opportunity of compassing Herrera's death."

"I do not understand you, Count," said Baltasar. "You talk as if the

young man's life or death were in my hands. I bring intelligence which

it is my duty to convey to the general as speedily as possible, and I am

no way responsible for the consequences. I cannot believe that you would

have me forget my duty, and suppress news of this importance."

"Certainly not," answered the Count; "but much depends on the way in

which such things are told. Moreover, the general talked yesterday of

calling a council of war, to deliberate and decide on the fate of these

prisoners. Should he do so, you will be a member of it; and if you wish

to serve me, you will give your vote on the side of mercy."

What reply Don Baltasar would have made to this request, must remain

unknown; for, before he had time to speak, the conversation was

interrupted by a knock at the door of the apartment, and one of

Zumalacarregui's aides-de-camp entered the room.

"The general has returned from his ride, Major Villabuena," said the

officer; "he has heard of your arrival, and is impatient to see you."

"I am ready to accompany you to him," said Baltasar, by no means sorry

to break off his dialogue with the Count.

"General Zumalacarregui also requests your presence, Señor Conde," said

the aide-de-camp.

"I will shortly wait upon him," replied Villabuena.

The two officers left the house, and the Count re-entered his sleeping

apartment to complete his toilet.

On reaching Zumalacarregui's quarters, Major Villabuena found the

Carlist chief seated at a table, upon which were writing-materials, two

or three maps, and some open letters. Several aides-de-camp, superior

officers, and influential partisans of Don Carlos, stood near him,

walked up and down the room, or lounged at the windows that looked out

upon the winding, irregular street of the village. In the court-yard of

the house, a picket of lancers sat or stood near their horses, which

were saddled and bridled, and ready to turn out at a moment's notice; a

sentry paced up and down in front of the door, and on the highest points

of some hills which rose behind the village, videttes were seen

stationed. Although there were more than a dozen persons assembled in

the apartment, scarcely a word was uttered; or if a remark was

interchanged, it was in a low whisper. Zumalacarregui himself sat silent

and thoughtful, his brow knit, his eyes fixed upon the papers before

him. The substance of the intelligence brought by Don Baltasar had

already reached him through some officers, to whom the Major had

communicated it on his first arrival at the general's quarters; and

Zumalacarregui waited in a state of painful anxiety to hear its

confirmation and further details. He foresaw that extreme measures would

be necessary to put an end to the system adopted by the Christinos, of

treating the prisoners they made as rebels and malefactors, instead of

granting them the quarter and fair usage commonly enjoyed by prisoners

of war; but although Zumalacarregui had been compelled, by the

necessities of his position, to many acts of severity and apparent

cruelty, his nature was in reality humane, and the shedding of human

blood abhorrent to him. It was, therefore, with some difficulty that he

resolved upon a course, the adoption of which he felt to be

indispensable to the advancement of the cause he defended.

Don Baltasar made his report. Two days previously, he said, whilst

reconnoitring with a handful of men in the neighbourhood of Pampeluna,

and observing the movements of the garrison, he was informed that an

execution of Carlist prisoners was to take place in that city on the

following morning. He sent a peasant to ascertain the truth of this

rumour. By some accident the man was detained all night in the fortress,

and in the morning he had the opportunity of witnessing the death of

Captain Orrio and four other officers, who were shot upon the glacis, in

presence of the assembled garrison. This was the substance of the

Major's report, to which Zumalacarregui listened with the fixed and

profound attention that he was accustomed to give to all who addressed

him. But not contented with relating the bare facts of the case, Don

Baltasar, either unmindful of his cousin's wishes, or desirous, for

reasons of his own, to produce an effect as unfavourable as possible to

the Christino prisoners, did all he could to place the cruelties

exercised on the unfortunate Carlists in the strongest possible light.

"Your Excellency will doubtless grieve for the loss of these brave and

devoted officers," said he, as he concluded his report; "but to them

their death was a boon and a release. The information brought by our

spies concerning the cruelty with which they were treated, exceeds

belief. Crowded into loathsome dungeons, deprived of the commonest

necessaries of life, fed on mouldy bread and putrid water, and

overwhelmed with blows if they ventured to expostulate--such were the

tender mercies shown by the agents of Christina to the unhappy Orrio and

his gallant companions. Although their imprisonment was but of three

weeks' duration, I am informed that they were so weakened and emaciated

as scarcely to be able to walk to the place of execution, which they

reached amidst the jeers and insults of their escort."

There was a movement of horror and indignation amongst the listeners.

"The savages!" muttered Zumalacarregui. "And how did they meet their

death?"

"Like heroes. Their last look was a defiance to their enemies, their

last words a _viva_ for the king. It is said that the Christinos offered

them their lives if they would renounce Charles V. and take up arms for

Isabel, but to a man they refused the offer."

"Truly," said Zumalacarregui, "the cause must be good and righteous that

finds such noble defenders. Have you heard aught of the prisoners at

Tafalla, Major Villabuena?"

"They are still detained there," said the Major, "but it is said that

orders for their execution are daily expected."

"By whom is it said, or is it merely a supposition of your own?" said a

voice behind Don Baltasar.

The Major turned, and met the stern gaze of the Count, who had entered

the room unobserved by him. Baltasar looked confused, and faltered in

his reply. He had heard it--it was generally believed, he said.

"Such reports are easily circulated, or invented by those who find an

interest in their fabrication," said the Count. "I trust that General

Zumalacarregui will not place implicit faith in them, or allow them to

influence his decision with regard to the unfortunate Christino

officers."

"Certainly not," returned Zumalacarregui; "but the undoubted facts that

have yesterday and to-day come to my knowledge, render any additional

atrocity on the part of our enemies unnecessary. The volley that they

fired yesterday on the glacis of Pampeluna, was the death-knell of their

own friends. Count Villabuena, the prisoners must die."

A hum of approbation ran through the assembly.

"With such opponents as ours," said Zumalacarregui, "humanity becomes

weakness. Captain Solano, let the prisoners be placed in capilla, and

order a firing-party for to-morrow noon."

The officer addressed left the room to fulfil the commands he had

received; and Zumalacarregui, as if desirous to get rid of a painful

subject, called Count Villabuena and some of his officers around him,

and began discussing with them a proposed plan of operations against the

division of one of the generals whom Rodil had left to follow up the

Carlist chief during his own absence in Biscay.

In the apartment in which the interview between the Conde de Villabuena

and his cousin had taken place, and within a few hours after the scene

in Zumalacarregui's quarters, the Count was seated alone, revolving in

his mind various schemes for the rescue of Luis Herrera from his

imminent peril. To rescue him, even at risk or sacrifice to himself, the

Count was fully resolved; but the difficulty was, to devise a plan

offering a reasonable chance of success. An appeal to Zumalacarregui

would, he well knew, be worse than useless. The general had decided on

the death of the prisoners from a conviction of its justice and utility;

and, had his own brother been amongst them, no exception would have been

made in his favour. The Count, therefore, found reason to rejoice at

having said nothing to Zumalacarregui of the interest he felt in Herrera

personally, and at having based his intercession in behalf of the

prisoners on the general ground of humanity. A contrary course would

greatly have increased the danger of the plans he was now forming. Since

there was no hope of obtaining Herrera's pardon, he was determined to

accomplish his escape. How to do this was a difficulty, out of which he

did not yet clearly see his way. The village was small, and crowded with

Carlist soldiers; the prisoners were strictly guarded; and even should

he succeed in setting Herrera at liberty, it would be no easy matter to

get him conveyed in safety to any post or garrison of the Christinos,

the nearest of which was several leagues distant, whilst the road to it

lay through a wild and difficult country, entirely unknown to Luis, and

containing a population devoted to Don Carlos.

It was three in the afternoon. Count Villabuena leaned over the balcony

of his apartment, and gazed musingly into the street of the little

village. The scene that offered itself to him was one that at any other

moment might have fixed his attention, although he was now too much

pre-occupied to notice its picturesque details. The rays of the August

sun fell in a broad flood of light upon the scattered houses of the

hamlet, making the flint and granite of their walls to glitter again;

the glare being only here and there relieved by a scanty patch of

shadow, thrown by some projecting wall, or by the thick foliage of a

tree. The presence of the Carlist troops caused an unusual degree of

bustle and animation in the village. Many of the houses had for the time

been converted into shops and taverns; in the former, tobacco, fruit,

sardines, and other soldier's luxuries, were exposed for sale on a

board in front of the window; whilst in the latter, huge pig-skins, of

black and greasy exterior, poured forth a dark stream of wine, having at

least as much flavour of the tar with which the interior of its leathern

receptacle was besmeared, as of the grape from which the generous liquid

had been originally pressed. Through the open windows of various houses,

glimpses were to be caught of the blue caps, strongly marked

countenances, and fierce mustaches of the Carlist soldiers; their

strangely-sounding Basque oaths and ejaculations mingling with the clack

of the castanets and monotonous thrum of the tambourine, as they

followed the sunburnt peasant girls through the mazes of the Zorcico,

and other national dances. Hanging over the window-sills, or suspended

from nails in the wall, were the belts, which the soldiers had profited

by the day's halt--no very frequent occurrence with them--to clean and

pipeclay, and then had hung to dry in the sun. Here, just within the

open door of a stable, were men polishing their musket-barrels, or

repairing their accoutrements; in another place a group, more idly

disposed, had collected in some shady nook, and were playing at cards or

morra; whilst others, wrapped in their grey capotes, their heads resting

upon a knapsack or doorstep, indulged in the sound and unbroken slumber

which their usually restless and dangerous existence allowed them but

scanty opportunity of enjoying.

The house occupied by Count Villabuena was nearly in the centre of one

of the irregular lines of detached buildings that formed the village.

About eighty yards further off, on the opposite side of the road, from

which they receded, and were partially screened by some barns and a

plantation of fruit-trees, there stood two houses united under one roof.

They were of the description usually inhabited by peasants of the richer

sort, and consisted of a ground floor, an upper story, and above that a

sort of garret under the tiles, which might serve as the abode of

pigeons, or perhaps, in case of need, afford sleeping quarters for a

farm-servant. In one of these houses, in which a number of soldiers were

billeted, a guard-room had been established, and in the other, before

the door and beneath the side-windows of which sentries were stationed,

the prisoners were confined. They had been brought to this village

immediately after their capture, as to a place of security, and one

little likely to be visited by any Christino column. Zumalacarregui had

accompanied them thither, but had marched away on the following day,

leaving only a few wounded men and a company behind him. He had now

again returned, to give his troops a day or two's repose, after some

harassing marches and rapid movements. Count Villabuena had accompanied

the general upon this last expedition, but not without previously

ascertaining that Herrera was well cared for, and that the wound in his

arm, which was by no means a severe one, was attended to by a competent

surgeon. The prisoners were lodged in a room upon the upper floor, with

the exception of Herrera, to whom, in consideration of his suffering

state, was allotted a small chamber near the apartment of his comrades,

the side window of which overlooked the open country. This casement,

which was about fifteen feet from the ground, was guarded by a sentry,

who had orders to fire upon the prisoners at the first indication of an

attempt to escape.

Whilst the Conde de Villabuena gazed on the temporary prison, of which

he commanded a view from his balcony, and meditated how he should

overcome the almost insuperable difficulties that opposed themselves to

Herrera's rescue, there emerged from the door of the guard-room a man,

whose gait and figure the Count thought he knew, although he was too far

distant to discern his features. This man was in a sort of half-uniform;

a blue jacket decorated with three rows of metal buttons, coarse linen

trousers, and on his head the customary woollen boina. From underneath

the latter appeared a white linen bandage, none of the cleanest, and

considerably stained with blood. His face was pale and thin, and the

Count conjectured him to be a wounded man, recently out of hospital.

The person who had thus attracted Villabuena's notice, turned into the

street, and keeping on the shady side, either from disliking the heat,

or out of regard to his recently bleached complexion, walked slowly

along till he arrived near the Count's window; then looking up, he

brought his hand to his cap, and saluted. As he did so, the Count

recognised the well-known features of Paco the muleteer.

The surprise felt by the Count at the reappearance of this man, whom he

fully believed to have been killed when he himself was rescued from the

Christinos by Zumalacarregui, was succeeded by a joyful foreboding. By

the aid of Paco, with whose sagacity and courage he was well acquainted,

who had been at a former period in his service, and whom he knew to be

entirely devoted to him, he felt at once that he should be able to

accomplish the escape of Herrera. Giving but one glance around to see

that he was not observed, he made a sign to the muleteer to come up to

him. Paco obeyed, and in another moment entered the apartment.

"I thought you were in your grave, Paco," said Villabuena, "and so did

we all. I myself saw you lying in the dust of the road, with a sabre-cut

on your head that would have killed an ox."

"It was not so bad as it looked," replied the Navarrese. "Nothing like a

close-woven boina for turning a sabre edge. Pepe Velasquez is a hard

hitter, and if I had worn one of their pasteboard shakos, my head would

have been split in two like a ripe tomata. But as it was, the blow

glanced sideways, and only shaved off a bit of the scalp, though it left

me senseless, and as like dead as night be. After the troops and your

señoria had marched away, and just as life was returning, some peasants

found me. They took me home and doctored me, and three days ago I was

well enough to crawl hither. I am getting strong and hearty, and shall

soon be in the saddle again."

"So much the better," replied the Count. "We want all the men we can

muster, and especially brave fellows like yourself. Meanwhile, what are

you doing, and where are you quartered?"

"In the house of José Urriola, here the guard-room is. My duty is to

take the prisoners their rations, and clean out their room. Poor Don

Luis, as your señoria doubtlessly knows, is amongst them."

"I do know it, and it is concerning him that I wish to speak to you.

Paco, I know I can depend on you."

"You can, your señoria," replied the muleteer. "Do you think I have

forgotten all your honour's kindness, how you got me out of the scrape

about the smuggling?"

"Or the one about thrashing the alguazils," returned the Count, with a

smile.

"Ah, your señoria was always very good to me," said Paco; "and I am not

the man to forget it."

"You have an opportunity of showing your gratitude," said the Count.

"Have you heard that the prisoners are to be shot to-morrow?"

Paco started.

"And Don Luis with them?"

The Count nodded affirmatively.

"It will be the death of Doña Rita," exclaimed Paco with blunt passion.

"Speak to the general--you can do it. He will not refuse Señor Herrera's

life, if you ask it."

"You are mistaken," said Villabuena; "in that quarter there is no hope.

The only chance for Don Luis is his escape, before to-morrow morning."

Paco shook his head, and remained for a moment silent. The Count

observed him attentively.

"It is difficult," said the muleteer, "and dangerous."

"Difficulties may be overcome; for the danger, you shall be amply

recompensed," said the Count, anxiously.

"I want no recompense, señor," cried the Navarrese, with one of those

bursts of free and manly independence that characterise his countrymen.

"I will do it for you if it cost me my life.

"But how is the escape to be accomplished?" said the Count. "Does any

plan occur to you?"

"I could do it," said Paco, "had I been ten days longer off the

doctor's list. But I am still weak; and even if I got Don Luis out of

his prison, I should be unable to accompany him till he is out of

danger. I take it he will want a guide. I must have some one to help me,

Señor Conde."

"That increases the danger to all of us," said the Count. "Whom can we

trust?"

"I can find some one," said Paco, after a moment's reflection, "who will

be safe and silent, if well paid."

The Count opened a writing-desk, and produced several gold ounces.

"A dozen of those will be sufficient," said Paco; "perhaps fewer. I will

do it as cheap as it can be done; for I suppose the _pesetas_ are not

more plentiful with your señoria than with most of Charles V.'s

followers. But it will not do to bargain too closely for a man's life."

"Nor do I mean to do so," said the Count. "Here is the sum you name, and

something over. Who is your man?"

"Your señoria has heard of Romany Jaime, the gipsy _esquilador?_"

The Count made a movement of surprise.

"He is one of our spies; devoted to the general. You cannot think of

trusting him?"

"He is devoted to any body who pays him," returned Paco. "I knew him

well in former days, when I went to buy mules in the mountains of

Arragon. An arch rogue is Master Jaime, who will do any thing for gold.

I daresay he serves the general honestly, being well paid; but he will

look upon our job as a godsend, and jump at the chance."

"I doubt the plan," said the Count. "I am bent upon saving Herrera, and

have made up my mind to some risk; but this appears too great."

"And what need your señoria know about the matter at all?" said the

ready-witted Paco. "No one has seen me here; or, if any one has, nothing

will be thought of it. The money was given me by the prisoner--I arrange

the matter with Jaime, and to-morrow morning, when the escape is

discovered, who is to tax you with a share in it?"

"'Tis well," said the Count--"I leave all to you; and the more

willingly, as my further interference might rather excite suspicion than

prove of service. If you want money or advice, come to me. I shall

remain here the whole evening."

Upon leaving the Count's quarters, Paco lounged carelessly down the

street, with that listless think-of-nothing sort of air, which is one of

the characteristics of the Spanish soldier, till he arrived opposite to

a narrow passage between two houses, at the extremity of which was a

stile, and beyond it a green field, and the foliage of trees. Turning

down this lane, he entered the field, and crossed it in a diagonal

direction, till he reached its further corner. Here, on the skirt of a

coppice, and under the shade of some large chestnut-trees, a group was

assembled, and a scene presented itself, that might be sought for in

vain in any country but Spain. Above a wood-fire, which burned black and

smouldering in the strong daylight, a large iron kettle was suspended,

emitting an odour that would infallibly have turned the stomachs of more

squeamish or less hungry persons than those for whom its contents were

destined. It would have required an expert chemist to analyse the

ingredients of this caldron, of which the attendant Hecate was a

barefooted, grimy-visaged drummer-boy, who, having been temporarily

promoted to the office of cook, hung with watering lips, and eyes

blinking from the effect of the wood smoke, over the precious stew

entrusted to his care. This he occasionally stirred with a drumstick,

the end of which he immediately afterwards transferred to his mouth,

provoking a catalogue of grimaces that the heat of the boiling mess and

its savoury flavour had probably an equal share in producing. Another

juvenile performer on the sheepskin was squatted upon his haunches on

the opposite side of the fire, acting as a check upon any excess of

voracity on the part of his comrade, whilst he diligently employed his

dirty digits and a rusty knife in peeling and slicing a large pumpkin,

of which the fragments, so soon as they were in a fitting state, were

plunged into the pot. A quantity of onion skins and tomata stalks, some

rusty bacon rind, the skin of a lean rabbit, and some feathers that

might have belonged either to a crow or a chicken, bestrewed the ground,

affording intelligible hints as to a few of the heterogeneous materials

already committed to the huge bowels of the kettle.

At a short distance from the fire, and so placed as to be out of the

current of smoke, a score of soldiers sprawled upon the grass, intent

upon the proceedings of a person who sat in the centre of the circle

they formed. This was a man whose complexion, dark as that of a Moor,

caused even the sunburnt countenance of his neighbours to appear fair by

the comparison. His eyes were deep-set and of a dead coal-black; and

around them, as well as at the corners of his large mouth, which, at

times, displayed a double row of sharp teeth of ivory whiteness, were

certain lines and wrinkles that gave to his physiognomy an expression in

the highest degree repulsive. Deceit, low cunning, and greed of gain,

were legibly written upon this unprepossessing countenance; whose wild

character was completed by a profusion of coarse dark hair, that hung or

rather stuck out in black elf-locks around the receding forehead and

tawny sunken cheeks. The dress of this man was in unison with his

aspect. He wore a greasy velveteen jacket, loose trousers of the same

stuff, and his feet were shod with _abarcas_--a kind of sandal in common

use in some parts of Navarre and Biscay, composed of a flat piece of

tanned pig's hide, secured across the instep by thongs. A leathern

wallet lay upon the ground beside him, and near it were scattered sundry

pairs of shears and scissors, used to clip mules and other animals. The

_esquilador_, or shearer--for such was the profession of the individual

just described--had found a subject for the exercise of his art in a

large white dog of the poodle species, who, with a most exemplary

patience, the result probably of a frequent repetition of the same

process, lay upon his back between the operator's knees, all four legs

in the air, exposing his ribs and belly to the scissors that were

rapidly divesting them of their thick fleece. The operation seemed to

excite intense interest amongst the surrounding soldiers, who followed

with their eyes each clip of the shears and movement of the esquilador's

agile fingers, and occasionally encouraged the patient, their constant

companion and playmate both in quarters and the field, by expressions of

sympathy and affection. The arrival of Paco, who established himself

behind the esquilador, in a gap of the circle, was insufficient to

distract their attention from the important and all-absorbing interest

of the dog-shearing.

"_Pobre Granuka!_" cried one of the lookers-on, patting the dog's head,

which lay back over the esquilador's knee; "how quiet he is! what a

sensible animal! How fares it, Granuka?--how is it with you?"

The dog replied by a blinking of his eyes, and by passing his tongue

over his black snout, to this kind inquiry concerning his state of

personal comfort.

"_Mira! que entendido!_" cried the gratified soldier; "he understands

every word. Come, gitano--have you nearly done? The poor dog's weary of

lying on his back."

The last trimming was given to the patient, and the liberated animal

jumped up and raced round the circle, as if anxious to show his friends

how greatly he was improved by the process he had undergone. His face

and the hinder half of his body were closely clipped, his shoulders and

forelegs remaining covered with a fell of woolly hair; whilst at the end

of his tail, the cunning artist had left, by express desire of the

soldiers, a large tuft, not unlike a miniature mop, which Granuka

brandished in triumph above his clean-shaven flanks.

"_Que hermoso!_" screamed one of the delighted soldiers, catching

Granuka in his arms, kissing his muzzle, and then pitching him down with

a violence that would have broken the bones of any but a regimental dog.

"Attention, Granuka!" cried another of the quadruped's numerous masters,

dropping on his knees before the dog, and uplifting his finger to give

force to the command. At the word, Granuka bounced down upon his hinder

end, and assumed an aspect of profound gravity.

"A _viva_ for the _niña_ Isabel," said his instructor.

Granuka stretched out his paws before him, laid his nose upon them, and

winked with his eyes as if he were composing himself to sleep.

"Won't you?" said the soldier. "Well, then, a _viva_ for the _puta_

Christina."

This time the eyes were closed entirely, and the animal gave a

dissatisfied growl.

"A _viva_ for the king!" was the next command.

The dog jumped briskly up, gave a little spring into the air, and

uttered three short, quick barks, which were echoed by shouts of

laughter from the soldiers. Having done this, he again sat down, grave

and composed.

"Once more," said his instructor, "and a good one, Granuka. _Viva el Tio

Zumalacarregui!_"

This time the dog seemed to have lost his senses, or to have been bitten

by a tarantula. He jumped off the ground half-a-dozen times to thrice

his own height, giving a succession of little joyous yelps that

resembled a human cachinnation far more than any sounds of canine origin

or utterance. Then, as if delighted at his own performances, he dashed

out of the circle, and began tearing about the field, his tail in the

air, yelling like mad. The soldiers doubled themselves up, and rolled

upon the grass in convulsions of merriment. As ill-luck would have it,

however, Granuka, in one of his frolicsome gyrations, in the performance

of which the curve described was larger than in the preceding ones, came

within sight and scent of the _al fresco_ kitchen, and that at the

precise moment when the cook, either conceiving his olla to be

sufficiently stewed, or desirous to ascertain its progress by actual

inspection, had fished out by the claw one of the anomalous-looking

bipeds whose feathers bestrewed the ground, and had placed it upon the

reversed lid of the camp-kettle. Granuka, either unusually hungry, or

imagining that the savoury morsel had been prepared expressly as a

reward for his patience and docility under his recent trials, made a

dart at the bird, caught it up in his mouth, and with lowered tail, but

redoubled speed, scampered towards the houses.

"_Maldito perro! Ladron!_" roared the cook, hurling his drumstick after

the thief, abandoning his kitchen, and starting off in pursuit, followed

by the soldiers, who had witnessed the nefarious transaction, and whose

shouts of laughter were suddenly changed into cries of indignation. The

stolen bird was of itself hot enough to have made any common dog glad to

drop it; but Granuka was an uncommon dog, an old campaigner, whose gums

were fire-proof; and the idea of relinquishing his prize never entered

his head. Presently he reached the stile at the end of the field, darted

under it and disappeared, followed by cooks and soldiers, swearing and

laughing, abusing the dog, and tripping up one an other. In less than a

half minute from the commission of the theft, Paco and the esquilador

were the only persons remaining in the field.

So soon as this was the case, Paco abandoned his position in rear of the

gipsy, and came round to his front. The dog-shearer had slung his wallet

over his shoulder, and was replacing in it his scissors and the other

implements of his craft.

"Good-day, Jaime," said Paco.

The gipsy glanced at the muleteer from under his projecting eyebrows,

and nodded a surly recognition.

"Will you come with me to clip a mule?" said Paco.

"I have no time," replied the esquilador. "The heat of the day is past,

and I must be moving. I have ten leagues to do between this and

morning."

"A quartillo of wine will be no bad preparation for the journey," said

the muleteer; "and I will readily bestow one in memory of the spavined

mule which you tried to palm upon me, but could not, now some three

years past."

The gipsy gave another of his furtive and peculiar glances, accompanied

by a slight grin.

"Thanks for your offer," said he, "but I tell you again I have no time

either to drink or shear. I must be gone before those mad fellows

return, and detain me by some new prank."

The noisy chatter and laughter of the soldiers was heard as he spoke.

The dog had got clear off, and they were returning to the kettle to

devour what was left there. The gipsy turned to go, when Paco put his

hand into his pocket, and on again drawing it forth, a comely golden

ounce, with the coarse features of Ferdinand VII. stamped in strong

relief on its bright yellow surface, lay upon the palm. The eyes of the

esquilador sparkled at the sight, and he extended his hand as if to

clutch the coin. Paco closed his fingers.

"Gently, friend Jaime," said he; "nothing for nothing is a good motto to

grow rich upon. This shining _onça_, and more of the same sort, may be

yours when you have done service for them."

"And what do you require of me?" said the gipsy, with a quick eagerness

that contrasted strongly with his previous apathetic indifference.

"I will tell you," said Paco, "but in some more private place than

this."

"Let us be gone," said the gipsy.

And as the first of the soldiers re-entered the field, the two men

passed through a gap in the hedge that bounded it, and were lost to view

in the adjacent thicket.

It was about an hour after sunset, and contrary to what is usual at that

season and in that country, the night was dark and cloudy. A slight mist

rose from the fields surrounding the village, and a fine rain began to

fall. In the guard-room adjoining the house in which Luis Herrera was

prisoner, the soldiers on duty were assembled round a rickety table, on

which a large coarse tallow candle, stuck in a bottle, flared and

guttered, and emitted an odour even more powerful than that of the

tobacco smoke with which the room was filled. The air was heavy, the

heat oppressive, and both the house-door and that of the guard-room,

which was at right angles to it, just within the passage, were left

open. Whilst some few of the men, their arms crossed upon the table, and

their heads laid upon them, dozed away the time till their turn for

going on sentry should arrive, the sergeant and the remainder of the

guard, including a young recruit who had only two days before deserted

from the Christinos and been incorporated in a Carlist battalion,

consumed successive measures of wine, to be paid for by those who were

least successful in a trial of skill that was going on amongst them.

This consisted in drinking _de alto_, as it is called--literally, from a

height, and was accomplished by holding a small narrow-necked bottle at

arm's length above the head, and allowing the wine to flow in a thin

stream into the mouth. In this feat of address the new recruit, whose

name was Perrico, was so successful as to excite the envy of his less

dexterous rivals.

"Pshaw!" said the sergeant, who, in a clumsily executed attempt, had

inundated his chin and mustache with the purple liquid--"Pshaw!" said

he, on seeing the deserter raise his bottle in the air and allow its

contents to trickle steadily and noiselessly down his expanded gullet;

"Perrico beats us all."

"No wonder," said a soldier, "he is from the country where Grenache and

Tinto are more plentiful than water, and where nobody drinks in any

other way, or ever puts a glass to his lips. He is a Catalan."

"An Arragonese," hastily interrupted Perrico, eager to vindicate himself

from belonging to a province which the rough manners and harsh dialect

of its inhabitants cause generally to be held in small estimation

throughout the rest of Spain. "An Arragonese, from the _siempre heroica_

Sarragossa."

"It's all one," said the sergeant, with a horse-laugh, "all of the

_corona de Aragon_, as the Catalans say when they are ashamed of their

country. But what induced you, Don Perrico, being from Sarragossa, where

they are all as revolutionary as Riego, to leave the service of the

Neapolitan woman and come over to Charles V.?"

"Many things," answered the deserter. "In the first place, I am of a

thirsty family. My father kept a wine-shop and my mother was a

cantiniera, and both drank as much as they sold. I inherited an

unfortunate addiction to the wine-skin, which upon several occasions has

brought me into trouble and the black-hole. The latter did not please

me, and I resolved to try whether I should not find better treatment in

the service of King Charles."

"Not if you have brought your thirst with you," answered the sergeant.

"Zumalacarregui does not joke in matters of discipline; so, if your

thirst troubles you here, I advise you to quench it at the pump. But

that will be the easier, as neither wine nor money are likely to be

over-abundant with us."

At this moment, and before Perrico could reply to the sergeant's

warning, the sentry in front of the house suspended his walk and uttered

a sharp "Quien vive?"

"Carlos Quinto," was the reply.

Another password was exchanged, and then a step was audible in the

passage, and the bandaged head and pale face of Paco appeared at the

door of the guard-room. The muleteer was received with a cry of welcome

from the soldiers.

"Hurra!" cried the sergeant, "here is your match, Perrico. No Catalan or

Arragonese, but jolly Navarro. A week's pay to a wet cartridge, he

empties this bottle _de alto_ without spilling a drop."

And he held out one of the small bottles before mentioned, which

contained something like an English pint. Paco took it, raised it as

high as he could in the air, and gradually depressing the neck, the wine

poured out in a slender and continuous stream, which the muleteer, his

head thrown back, caught in his mouth. The bottle was emptied without a

single drop being spilt, or a stain appearing on the face of the

drinker.

"Bravo, Paco!" cried the soldiers.

"Could not be better," said Perrico.

"You are making a jolly guard of it," said Paco. "Wine seems as common

as ditch-water amongst you. Who pays the shot?"

"I!" cried the sergeant, clapping his hand on his pocket, which gave

forth a sound most harmoniously metallic. "I have inherited, friend

Paco; and, if you like to sit down with us, you shall drink yourself

blind without its costing on an _ochavo_."

"'Twould hardly suit my broken head," returned the muleteer. "But from

whom have you inherited? From the dead or the living?"

"The living to be sure," replied the sergeant, laughing. "From a fat

Christino alcalde, with whom I fell in the other morning upon the

Salvatierra road. His saddle-bags were worth the rummaging."

"I can't drink myself," said Paco; "but let me take out a glass to poor

Blas, who is walking up and down, listening to the jingle of the

bottles, as tantalized as a mule at the door of a corn-store."

"Against the regulations," said the sergeant. "Wait till he comes off

sentry, and he shall have a skin-full."

"Pooh!" said Paco, "cup of wine will break no bones, on sentry or off."

And taking advantage of the excellent humour in which his potations had

put the non-commissioned officer, he filled a large earthen mug with

wine, and left the room.

The sentinel was leaning against the house-wall, his coat-skirt wrapped

round the lock of his musket to protect it from the drizzling rain, and

looking as if he would gladly have exchanged his solitary guard for a

share in the revels of his comrades, when Paco came out, the cup of wine

in his hand, and whistling in a loud key a popular Basque melody. The

soldier took the welcome beverage from the muleteer, unsuspicious of any

other than a friendly motive on the part of Paco, raised it to his lips,

and drank it slowly off, as if to make the pleasure of the draught as

long as possible. Thus engaged, he did not observe a man lurking in the

shadow of an opposite barn, and who, taking advantage of the sentinel's

momentary inattention, and of the position of Paco, who stood so as to

mask his movements from the soldier, glided across the street, darted

into the house, and, passing unseen and unheard before the open door of

the guard-room, nimbly and noiselessly ascended the stairs.

The sentinel drained the cup to the last drop, returned it to Paco, gave

a deep sigh of satisfaction, and began marching briskly up and down.

Paco re-entered the guard room, and placed the cup upon the table.

The wine was beginning to make visible inroads on the sobriety of some

of the soldiers, and the propriety of putting an end to the debauch

occurred to the non-commissioned officer.

"Come, boys," cried he, "knock off from drinking, or you'll hardly go

through your facings, if required."

"Only one glass more, sergeant," cried Perrico. "There is still a

pleasant tinkle in the _borracha_."

And he shook the large leathern bottle which held the supply of wine.

"Only one more, then," said the sergeant, unable to resist the

temptation, and holding out his glass. Perrico filled it to the brim,

and afterwards did the same for three soldiers who still kept their

places at the table, the others having composed themselves to sleep upon

the benches round the room. For himself, however, as Paco, who stood

behind him, had opportunity of observing, the deserter poured out little

or nothing, though he kept the cup at his lips as long as if he were

drinking an equal share with his comrades.

"Now," said the sergeant, thumping his glass upon the table, "not

another drop. And you, Master Perrico, though your father did keep a

wine-shop, and your mother carry the brandy-keg, let me advise you to

put your head under the fountain, and then lie down and sleep till your

turn for sentry. It will come in an hour or two."

"And where shall I be posted?" hiccuped Perrico, who, to all appearance,

began to feel the effects of the strong Navarrese wine.

"Under the prisoners' window," was the reply, "where you will need to

keep a bright look-out. I would not be in your jacket for a colonel's

commission if they were to escape during your guard. To-morrow's

firing-party would make a target of you."

"No fear," replied the young man. "I could drink another _azumbre_ and

be none the worse for it."

"_Fanfarron!_" said the sergeant; "you talk big enough for an

Andalusian, instead of an Arragonese."

And so saying, the worthy sergeant walked to the door of the house to

cool his own temples, which he felt were somewhat of the hottest, in the

night air. Paco wished him good-night; and lighting a long thin taper,

composed of tow dipped in rosin, at the guard-room candle, ascended the

stairs to his own dormitory.

The room, or rather kennel, appropriated to the lodging of the muleteer,

was a triangular garret already described, formed by the ceiling of the

upper story and the roof of the house, which rose in an obtuse angle

above it. Its greatest elevation was about six feet, and that only in

the centre, whence the tiles slanted downwards on either side to the

beams by which the floor was supported. The entrance was by a

step-ladder, and through a trap-door, against which, when he reached it,

Paco gave two very slight but peculiar taps. Thereupon a bolt was

cautiously withdrawn, and the trap raised; the muleteer completed the

ascent of the steps, entered the loft, and found himself face to face

with Jaime the gipsy.

"Did no one see you?" said Paco, in a cautious whisper.

"No one," replied the esquilador, reseating himself upon Paco's bed,

from which he had risen to give admittance to the muleteer. The bed

consisted of a wooden _catre_, or frame, supporting a large square bag

of the coarsest sackcloth, half full of dried maize-leaves, and having a

rent in the centre, through which to introduce the arm, and shake up the

contents. The only other furniture of the room was a chair with a broken

back. On the floor lay the gipsy's wallet, and his abarcas, which he had

taken off to avoid noise during his clandestine entrance into the house.

The gipsy himself was busy tying slip-knot at the end of a stout rope

about seven or eight yards long. Another piece of cord, of similar

length and thickness, lay beside him, having much the appearance of a

halter, owing to the noose already made at one of its extremities. The

tiles and rafters covering the room were green with damp, and, through

various small apertures, allowed the wind and even the rain to enter

with a facility which would have rendered the abode untenable for a

human inhabitant during any but the summer season. In one of the slopes

of the roof was an opening in the tiles, at about four feet from the

floor, closed by a wooden door, and large enough to give egress to a

man. To this opening Paco now pointed.

"Through there," said he.

The gipsy nodded.

"The roof is strong," continued Paco, "and will bear us well. We creep

along the top till we get to the chimney at the further end, just above

the window of the prisoner's room. I have explained to you what is then

to be done."

"It is hazardous," said the gipsy. "If a tile slips under our feet, or

the sentries catch sight of us, we shall be picked off the house-top

like sparrows."

"Perfectly true," said Paco; "but the tiles will not slip, and the night

is too dark for the sentries to see us. Besides, friend Jaime, ten

ounces are not to be earned by saying paternosters, or without risk."

"Risk enough already," grumbled the gipsy. "At this hour I ought to be

five leagues away, and if he, on whose service I was bound, finds out

that I have tarried, no tree in the sierra will be too high to hang me

on."

"You must hope that he will not find it out," said Paco, coolly.

"Did you give the prisoner a hint of our plan?" enquired the gitano.

"I was unable. I visit him but once a-day, to take him his rations, and

that at noon. Since I arranged this plan, I endeavoured to get

admittance to him, but was repulsed by the sentry. To have insisted

would have excited suspicion. He knows, however, that he is to be shot

to-morrow, and is not likely to be asleep."

Just then the deep sonorous bell of the neighbouring church-clock struck

the hour. The two men listened, and counted ten strokes.

"Is it time?" said the gipsy, who had completed the noose upon the

second rope.

"Not yet," replied Paco; "let another hour strike. Till then, not

another word."

The muleteer extinguished the light and seated himself down upon the

broken chair; the gipsy stretched himself upon the bed, and all was

silent and dark in the garret. Gradually, the slight murmuring sounds

which still issued from various houses of the little village became

hushed, as the inmates betook themselves to rest; and Paco, who waited

with anxious impatience till the moment for action should arrive, heard

nothing but the heavy breathing of the esquilador, who had sunk into a

restless slumber. Half-past ten was tolled; the challenging of the

sentries was heard as they were visited by the rounds; and then soon

afterwards came the long-drawn admonition of "_Sentinela alerta!_" from

the main guard, replied to in sharp quick tones by the "_Aleria esta_"

of the sentries. At length eleven struck, and when the reverberation of

the last stroke had died away, Paco rose from his chair, and shook his

companion from his sleep.

"It is time," said he.

The gipsy started up.

"The money?" was his first question.

Paco placed a small bag in the esquilador's hand, which closed eagerly

upon it.

"I promised you ten ounces," said the muleteer, "and you have them

there. When you bring me a line in the handwriting of the prisoner,

dated from a Christino town, you shall receive a like sum. But beware of

playing false, gitano. Others, more powerful than myself, are concerned

in this affair, and will know how to punish treachery."

The gipsy made no reply, but feeling for his wallet, put his sandals and

one of the ropes into it, and fastened it on his shoulders. Paco slipped

off his shoes, twisted the other rope round his body, and opening the

door in the tiles, in an instant was on the top of the house. The

esquilador followed. Upon their hands and feet the two men ascended the

gradual slope of the roof till they reached the ridge in its centre,

upon which they got astride, and worked themselves slowly and silently

along towards that end of the building in which Herrera was confined.

Owing to the profound darkness, and to the extreme caution with which

Paco, who led the way, proceeded, their progress was very gradual, and

at last an actual stop was put to it by a small but solidly-built stone

chimney which rose out of the summit, and within a foot of the extremity

of the house. Paco untwisted the rope from round his body and handed it

to the gipsy, retaining one end in his hand. The esquilador fixed the

noose about his middle, and altering his position, passed Paco,

scrambled round the chimney, and seated himself on the verge of the

roof, his legs dangling over. Paco gave a turn of the rope round the

chimney, and then leaning forward from behind it, put his mouth to the

gipsy's ear, and spoke in one of those suppressed whispers which seem

scarcely to pass the lips of the speaker.

"Remember," said he, "ten ounces, or"----

A significant motion of his hand round his throat, completed the

sentence in a manner doubtless comprehensible enough to the esquilador.

The latter now turned himself about, and supported himself with his

breast and arms upon the roof, his legs and the lower part of his body

hanging against the side wall of the house. Paco kept his seat behind

the chimney, astride as before, and gathering up the rope, held it

firmly. Gradually the gipsy slid down; his breast was off the roof, then

his arms, and he merely hung on by his hands. His hold was then

transferred to the rope above his head, of which one end was round his

waist and the other in the hands of Paco. All this was effected with a

caution and absence of noise truly extraordinary, and proving wonderful

coolness and habit of danger on the part of the two actors in the

strange scene. As the gipsy hung suspended in the air, Paco began

gradually paying out the rope, inch by inch. This process, owing to the

light weight of the gipsy, and to the check given to the running of the

cord by the chimney round which it was turned, he was enabled without

difficulty to accomplish and regulate. In a brief space of time a

sensible diminution of the strain warned him that the gitano had found

some additional means of support. For the space of about three minutes

Paco sat still, holding the rope firmly, but giving out no more of it;

then pulling towards him, he found it come to his hand without

opposition. He drew it all in, again twisted it about his body, and

lying down upon his belly, put his head over the edge of the tiles to

see what was passing beneath. All was quiet; no light was visible from

the window of Herrera's room, which was at about a dozen feet below him.

The mist and thick darkness prevented any view of the sentry; but he

could hear the sound of his footsteps, and the burden of the royalist

ditty which he was churming between his teeth.

Whilst all this took place, Luis Herrera, unsuspicious of the efforts

that were making for his rescue, sat alone in his room, which was dimly

lighted by an ill-trimmed lamp. Twelve hours had elapsed since he had

been informed of the fate that awaited him; in twelve more his race

would be run, and he should bid adieu to life, with its hopes and cares,

its many deceptions and scanty joys. A priest, who had come to give him

spiritual consolation in his last hours, had left him at sundown,

promising to return the next morning; and since his departure Herrera

had remained sitting in one place, nearly in one posture, thoughtful and

pre-occupied, but neither grieving at nor flinching from the death which

was to snatch him from a world whereof he had short but sad experience.

Alone, and almost friendless, his affections blighted and hopes ruined,

and his country in a state of civil war--all concurred to make Herrera

regard his approaching death with indifference. Life, which, by a

strange contradiction, seems prized the more as its value diminishes,

and clung to with far greater eagerness by the old than the young had

for him few attractions remaining. Once, and only once, a shade of

sadness crept over his features, and he gave utterance to a deep sigh,

almost a sob, of regret, as he drew from his breast a small locket

containing a tress of golden hair. It was a gift of Rita's in their

happy days, before they knew sorrow or foresaw the possibility of a

separation; and from this token, even when Herrera voluntarily renounced

his claim to her hand, and bade her farewell for ever, he had not had

courage to part. By a strong effort, he now repressed the emotion which

its sight, and the recollections it called up, had occasioned him, and

he became calm and collected as before. Drawing a table towards him, he

made use of writing-materials, which he had asked for and obtained, to

commence a long letter to Mariano Torres. This his confessor had

promised should be conveyed to his friend.

He had written but a few lines, when a slight sound at the room window

roused his attention. The noise was too trifling to be much heeded; it

might have been a passing owl or bat flapping its wing against the

wooden shutter. Herrera resumed his writing. A few moments elapsed, and

the noise was again heard. This time it was a distinct tapping upon the

shutter, very low and cautious, but repeated with a degree of regularity

that argued, on the part of the person making it, a desire of attracting

his attention. Herrera rose from his seat, and obeying a sort of

instinct or impulse, for which he would himself have had trouble to

account, masked the lamp behind a piece of furniture, and hastening to

the window, which opened inwards, cautiously unlatched it. A man, whose

features were unknown to him, was supporting himself on the ledge

outside, his legs gathered under him, and nearly the whole of his thin

flexible body coiled up within the deep embrasure of the window. Putting

his finger to his lips, to enjoin silence, he severed, by one blow of a

keen knife, a cord that encircled his waist, and then springing lightly

and actively into the room, closed the shutter, since the opening of

which, so rapid had been his movements, not ten seconds had elapsed.

Although the motive of this strange intrusion was entirely unknown to

him, Herrera at once inferred that it boded good rather than evil. He

was not long left in doubt. The esquilador pointed to Herrera's wounded

arm, the sleeve of which was still cut open, although the wound was

healed, and the limb had regained its strength.

"Have you full use of that?" said he.

"I have," replied Herrera. "But what is your errand here?"

"To save you," answered the gipsy. "There is no time for words. We must

be doing."

And making a sign to Herrera to assist him, he caught hold of one end of

the heavy old-fashioned bedstead, which had been allotted to the use of

the wounded prisoner, and with the utmost caution to avoid noise, lifted

it from the ground and brought it close to the window. Then, taking a

rope from his wallet, he fastened it to one of the bed-posts. Herrera

began to understand.

"And my companions," said he. "They also must be saved. My room door is

locked, but the next window is that of their apartment."

"It is impossible," said the gipsy. "_You_ may be saved, perhaps; but to

attempt the rescue of more would be destruction. Look here."

The gipsy extinguished the lamp and, stepping upon the bed, reopened the

shutter, and drew Herrera towards him.

"Listen," said he, in a low whisper.

The tread of the sentry was heard, and at that moment, the glare of a

lantern fell upon the trees, bordering a field opposite the window.

Beyond that field the ground was broken and uneven, covered with tall

bushes, fern, and masses of rock, and sloping upwards towards the

neighbouring hills. The light drew nearer; the sentry challenged. It was

the relief. Their heads in the embrasure of the window, Herrera and the

gipsy could hear every word that passed. The man going off sentry gave

over his instructions to his successor. They were few and short. The

principal was, to fire upon any one of the prisoners who should so much

as show himself at a window.

By the light of the lantern which the corporal carried, Paco, who was

still peering over the edge of the roof, distinguished the features of

the new sentry. They were those of Perrico the Christino deserter. The

relief marched away, the sentinel shouldered his musket, and walked

slowly up to the further end of his post.

"Now then," said the gipsy to Herrera, "fix the rope round your waist.

We will let him pass once more, and when he again turns his back, I will

lower you. I shall be on the ground nearly as quickly as yourself, and

then keep close to me. Take this, it may be useful."

And he handed him a formidable clasp-knife, of which the curved and

sharp-pointed blade was fitted into a strong horn handle. With some

repugnance, but aware of the possible necessity he might find for it,

Herrera took the weapon. The rope was round his waist, and, with his

hands upon the embrasure of the window, he only waited to spring out for

a signal from the gipsy, who was watching, as well as the obscurity

would permit, the movements of the soldier. The night was growing

lighter, the wind had risen and swept away the mist from the fields,

overhead the clouds had broken, and stars were visible, sparkling in

their setting of dark blue enamel.

"Now!" said the gipsy, who held the slack of the rope gathered up in his

hands. "No, stop!" cried he, in a sharp whisper, checking Herrera, who

was about to jump out, and drawing hastily back. "Hell and the devil!

What is he about?"

The window of the room was nearly at the extremity of the sentinel's

post, so that, during one period of his walk, the soldier's back, owing

to the slow pace at which he marched up and down, was turned for a full

minute. It was upon this brief space of time that the gipsy had

calculated for accomplishing his own descent and that of his companion.

He had allowed the soldier to proceed twice along the whole length of

his post, meaning to avail himself of the third turn he should take. But

to his surprise and perplexity, when the man passed for the third time,

he left his usual track, moved some twenty paces backwards from the

house, and gazed up at Herrera's window. Apparently he could distinguish

nothing; for, after remaining a few moments stationary, he again

approached the wall of the house, looked cautiously around him, and,

giving three low distinct coughs, continued his walk. Without pausing to

consider the meaning of this strange proceeding, the esquilador caught

Herrera's arm.

"Out with you," said he, "and quickly!"

Herrera darted through the window, hung on for one instant by the edge,

and let himself go--the gipsy, with a degree of strength that could

hardly have been anticipated in one so slightly built, holding the rope

firmly, and lowering him steadily and rapidly. The moment that his feet

touched the ground, the gipsy sprang out of the window, and, grasping

the rope, began descending by the aid of his hands and feet, with the

agility of a monkey or a sailor boy. Before he was half-way down,

however, the sentinel, who had reached the end of his walk, began

retracing his steps. Hererra's heart beat quick. Hastily cutting the

noose from round his waist, he pressed himself against the wall and

stood motionless, scarcely venturing to breathe. The sentinel

approached. Dark though it was, it seemed impossible that he did not

already perceive what was passing. Gliding along close to the wall,

Herrera prepared to spring upon him at the first sound uttered, or

dangerous movement made by him. The soldier drew nearer, paused, let the

but of his musket fall gently to the ground, and clasped his hands over

the muzzle. Herrera made a bound forward, and clutching his throat,

placed the point of his knife against his breast.

"One word," said he, "and I strike!"

"At the heart of your best friend," replied the soldier, in a voice of

which the well-known accents thrilled Hererra's blood.

"Mariano!" he exclaimed.

"Himself," replied Mariano Torres.

Just then the gipsy, who had reached the ground, sprang upon the

disguised Christino, and made a furious blow at him with his knife.

Torres raised his arm, and the blade passed through the loose sleeve of

his capote. Herrera hastened to interfere.