The sun was high when Tacita woke the next morning. The chamber door was
open, and an odor of coffee came up the stair. The window sash and
curtain had been drawn back, admitting the pine-scented air and a rain
of sunshine that fell over everything in large golden drops.
It was late. “But that does not matter,” Elena said, coming up with the
coffee. “We could not have started sooner. My brother had to come for
us; and it takes three hours. There were other things to do besides. And
when they were all done, we talked over the incidents of a five years’
separation. How glad I was to see him!”
Tears were shining in her eyes. “There is no haste. My brother has to
prepare some things. We go by an inner path, not the one Dylar took. We
travel in a southwesterly direction across the mountains; and you will
reach your chamber long before sunset. I have thought that you would not
care to see any strangers to-night. Am I right? Well, now we will go
down. But first, I have a word to say to you.”
There was something in her face that arrested attention, an excitement
that was almost a trembling. “Tacita, do you remember all that your
mother and grandfather told you, which you refused to repeat to me?”
Tacita made no reply in words. Already she divined.
The nurse leaned to whisper a word in her ear, and give her a sign.
Tacita looked at her with a mild surprise.
The nurse went to look out the window, and returning, repeated her
pantomime and whisper.
“Well?” said Tacita wonderingly.
“Dylar reproved me for having tried you in Seville,” the nurse said, and
again repeated the whisper and the touch.
“I might have known!” Tacita exclaimed joyously, embracing her. “I did
almost know. It is all that was needed to make me perfectly happy! And
now, let us start for home. At last I can call it home! ‘By the side of
a rock,’ my mother said.”
They went down stairs. There was no one visible, and the door was still
barred. Elena led her companion into the niche under the stair, and
tapped on the stone wall. Immediately, as though her light touch had
pushed it, a part of the wall receded a few inches, was lifted a few
inches, and swung slowly backward. It was a door of small stones set in
a plank frame, the irregular edges fitting perfectly into the masonry
about them. A narrow, dim passage was visible, leading downwards.
They descended, hand in hand, passing by a man who stood there in the
shadow; and the door was closed and barred behind them. It was hung on
iron hooks that were round at the top, and square below. When the bars
were removed, and the door freed from the wall, a pulley lifted it from
the square to the round iron on which it swung.
The incline led to a small cave, scarcely larger than the room above. It
was all open to the west, and an abyss separated it from a precipice,
leaving only a narrow shelf of rock outside the cave’s mouth. Beside
this shelf, no other egress was visible.
The place showed signs of having been recently used as a stable. For the
rest, it might not have been visited for years. There was an old chest
with rusty hinges, an old box full of pine-needles, and some discolored
blocks of wood that might have served as seats.
“It is Arone, my brother!” said Elena, when the man came down to them
after fastening the door.
He had a sunny face, and he resembled his sister so closely that an
introduction was scarcely necessary. His dress set off a fine manly
figure. It was a gray cloth tunic reaching to the knees, and girded with
a dark blue fringed sash. Long gray stockings and a gray turban-shaped
cap with a blue band completed his costume. The band of the cap was
closed over the left ear with a small silver hand.
The shelf of rock proved to be their path. Holding by a rope fixed in
iron hooks, they followed its curve to a small platform of rock. From
this, a bridge of two planks, over which the rope was continued, crossed
the chasm to a second shelf. This was more dangerous than the first; for
it was wet, and the sheer rock it followed was dripping. Beyond, in a
wider path, were their guides of the day before, and the donkeys.
Holding the rope, Tacita passed the wet rock, not daring to look
downward, and was received by her companions with a “Brava!”
The worst was over. She sat down to get her breath, and Arone returned
to remove the ropes and plank.
“You are going to see, in a little while, why our path is wet,” Elena
said. “Meantime, look about you. Do you see that window?” pointing to a
fissure in the rock above the cave. Ropes extended from this point to
another not visible to them, but in the direction of their pathway. “The
closed door you saw next to our chamber leads to that room, and those
ropes carry signals to a station that is visible to a second station
farther on. From there they are repeated to a third, and that third
station we see at home. Anything that takes place here can be known
there in a few minutes. They must know already that we have passed the
bridge. The house is not such a ruin as it appears, nor so far away from
everybody. There are several decent rooms above; and it is only five
miles round by the road to Castle Dylar. There are always two persons in
the house as guard; and they are changed every week. From an upper
window, like this, hidden behind a fissure in the rock, all the roads
outside are visible. There are tubes leading to the lower room through
which the guard can converse, or listen.”
Tacita did not reply. She disliked mysteries, having had reason to
mistrust them.
“We have no more secrets than we must, dear,” her friend said,
perceiving the signs of distaste. “All that you have seen is necessary
for the protection of good people who have not strength to defend
themselves, and would not wish to use force, if they could.”
Arone, who had come back to them, looked at the window over the cave,
and blew a whistle. Instantly, a bunch of long, colored streamers ran
along one of the ropes, and disappeared. While they waited, Elena gave
her charge a first lesson in her mother’s native language, telling the
names of their guides, their animals, the rocks, lichens, and the sky,
with its light and sources of light. Then, pausing, she raised her hand,
and listened. There was a stir, faint and far away, but coming nearer.
It became a rushing sound, and a sound of waters. A huge white feather
showed above the wet rock underneath which they had passed, and a
foaming torrent leaped over its brink, plunged with a sharp stroke to
the shelf, and fell into the abyss. Their whole path from the cave’s
mouth to within a few feet of where they stood was covered with the wild
rush of a mountain torrent.
“That is our beautiful gate,” Elena said. “It needs no bolt. Now we will
go. From here the way is all plain.”
They rode for two hours over a hard mountain path, where nothing but
dark rocks, pine-trees, and snow was visible. Then through a gap in the
mountains an exquisite picture was seen, lower down, and not so far away
but its features could be examined. There was a green hill with sheep
and lambs, and a little cottage. Outside the door, under the shadow of
an awning, sat a man and woman. The man was carving pieces of wood on a
table before him; the woman had some work on her lap which kept her
hands in constant motion. A young girl came out of the cottage and
brought her mother something which they examined closely together. They
were all dressed in gray with bright girdles.
“The man carves little olive-wood boxes and bowls,” Elena said. “The
woman and her daughter make pillow lace. The girl is our very best
lace-maker. Her work brings a high price when we send it out.”
The three continued tranquilly their occupations, unconscious of being
observed; and an interposing mountain slope soon hid them from sight.
Tacita began to feel that she had rested but superficially the two past
nights. She scarcely cared to look at the changing views where distant
snow-peaks and occasional airy distances seemed to intimate that before
long they might emerge from their mountain prison.
The path descended gradually; there were glimpses of pine-groves and
olives. Suddenly they made a sharp turn, and entered a cave much like
that they had started from.
“At last!” exclaimed Elena, and slipped from her saddle.
From the cave they went into a long corridor that led them to an
ante-room with a curtained glass door at each of the four sides. There
was no window. One of the doors stood open into a charming bed-chamber.
The one large window of this chamber was covered with a curtain of white
linen in closely crowded flutings that shone with a reflected sunshine.
The color of all the room was a delicate gray, with touches of gilding
everywhere. They glimmered in a broad band of arabesques that ran round
the walls at middle height; on a bronze vase with its long slender
pen-sweep of a handle; on the lance-ends of the curtain-rod; on the
railing around three sides of a little table that held a candlestick,
bottle, and glass at the bedside. There was a glistening of gold all
through the light shadow-tint.
“Welcome! A thousand welcomes to San Salvador!” exclaimed Elena, leading
Tacita into the chamber and embracing her with fervor. “May all
happiness and peace attend you here; and may the place be to you the
gate of heaven!”
“And now, dear, your fatigues are all over,” she added. “You are at
home!”
“San Salvador!” repeated Tacita, looking about her.
“Do you wish to see and know more now, at once?” the nurse asked
smilingly. “There are no more secrets for you.”
“Oh, no! Just now I appreciate too well our Italian proverb: ‘The bed is
a rose.’ And that sofa seems to speak.” She went to sink on to its soft
cushions. “Go to your friends, Elena.”
“Presently. You must first be attended to. There is a woman here who
will serve you in everything. She speaks French, and her name is Marie.
What are your orders?”
“My wish is to rest on this motherly sofa an hour or two, without having
to utter a word. Then I would like a little quiet dinner, all alone,
after which I will go to bed and sleep as long as nature wills. Those
are my wishes. My sole command is that you go to your friends at once,
and do not return to me till to-morrow morning. My poor, dear Elena!
What a care I have been to you! Now let me see you take some care of
yourself. I have all that I want.”
The woman, Marie, appeared with a cup of broth on a tray. From her glad
excitement, the tray trembled in her hands.
“Oh, welcome home, Elena!” she exclaimed. “Welcome to San Salvador,
Tacita Mora! You are a thousand times welcome! May the place be to you
the gate of heaven! I am so glad!”
She set the tray before Tacita, but could spare her only a glance as she
uttered her hasty and tremulous welcome. Then she ran to embrace Elena.
“Oh, welcome! welcome! You are looking so well. You come laden with good
news. Stay with us! We will not let you go again. We will give the moon
in exchange for you!”
“Oh, I should miss the moon,” Elena said laughingly.
After a little while they went out together, leaving Tacita to rest.
“What, then, is San Salvador?” she wondered, sinking among the
sofa-pillows.
Perhaps she might learn by lifting that sun-lighted curtain. But she did
not wish to lift it. There was pleasure in tasting slowly the unfolding
mystery. So far, each revelation had been brighter than the preceding.
She slept content, and waked to see on the curtain the deep hue of
sunset.
For a little while she lay looking about her, recollecting herself, and
examining her surroundings. The floor was of yellow tiles, all the
furniture and bed-covers were of pale gray linen as glossy as satin, the
wicker chairs were graceful in shape, and the tables gave a restful idea
of what tables are meant for, undefeated by sprawling legs and
impertinent corner-twiddlings. They were of fine solid wood, dignified
and useful, and set squarely on strong legs.
Glancing at the band of arabesques around the walls, Tacita perceived
that it had a meaning. It was all letters—but letters run to flower or
to animal life. They budded, they ended in tendrils, they were birds and
insects, but always letters; and as she studied them, they became
letters that made words in all the languages that she knew; and
doubtless those which she could not decipher were words of languages
unknown to her. And of all those which she could read, every one
repeated the same words, over and over, whole, or in fragments, each
phrase held up as a honey-dropping flower:
_He shall feed his flock like a shepherd; and sorrow and mourning shall
flee away._
It was set down in clear text. Then a bird flew with a part of it in his
beak. _Like a shepherd, Like a shepherd._ And the word _shepherd_ stood
alone, all bloomed out with little golden lilies. Dragon-flies and
butterflies bore the promise on their wings; and where it bore roses,
every rose had a humming-bird or bee sucking its sweetness out. The
quick squirrel ran with what seemed a vine hanging from his upturned
mouth; and the vine was a promise.
It was the Moorish idea. She had seen among their arabesques the motto
of Ibn-l-ahmar: “There is no conqueror but God,” so interwoven with
ornamentation. But that solemn Moorish reverence and piety did not touch
the heart like this consoling tenderness.
Dinner was served on a table set before the window. It was a charming
little dinner: a shaving of broiled ham; a miraculous soup; a bit of
fish in a shell; a few ribs, crisp and tender, of roasted kid; rice in
large white kernels; an exquisite salad of some tender herbs with lemon
juice and oil that was like honey; a conserve of orange-blossoms, rich
and thick; a tiny flask of red wine from which all acrid taste of seed
and stem had been excluded; and lastly, a sip or two of coffee which
defied criticism.
Evidently the cook of San Salvador was nothing less than a
_cordon-bleu_.
The dinner done a healthy justice to, and praised, Tacita was once more
left to herself. But first Marie brought a vase of olive oil and water
with a floating flame, and set it in a little glazed niche in the wall
that had its own pipe-stem of a chimney; and she drew back the window
curtain. The lower part of it had lost the sun; but a bar of orange
light crossed the top.
Tacita waited till the door closed, then looked out eagerly.
There were still mountains in a rugged magnificence of mass and outline;
but the color left no room for disappointment. They faced the west with
the kindled torch of a snow-peak above a tumult of gold and purple and
deep-red. There were pines along the lower heights, and olives, and,
lower still, fruit-trees. A rock protruding close to either side of the
window narrowed the lower view. But only a few rods distant, a wedge of
smooth green turf was visible, with a crowd of gayly-dressed children
playing on it, tossing grace-hoops, chasing each other, and dancing.
Presently the air was filled with a sweet, tinkling music. The children
ceased their play at the sound, and formed themselves in procession,
with subsiding kitten-like skips, and passed along the green, and out of
sight.
As she watched them, it occurred to Tacita for the first time to think
that youth is beautiful. It is a thought that seldom occurs to the
young, youth being a gift that is gone as soon as recognized. Her aching
languor and weariness taught her the value of that elastic activity, and
her sorrow suggested the charm of that unclouded gayety. Yes, it is
beautiful, she thought, that evanescent blush of life’s morning forever
hovering about the sterner facts of human existence.
She sat and looked out till the color faded from the heights, leaving
only a spot of gold aloft; and, thinking that she must not go to sleep
in her chair, fell sound asleep in it.
It was about midnight when she waked, and with so vivid an awakening
that to sleep longer seemed impossible. In place of the languid
quiescence of the evening before, there was a consuming impatience to
know all without an hour’s delay. Close to her was the unsolved mystery
of her mother’s birth and of her own fate. She could wait no longer.
She lighted her candle, and went softly out into the ante-room. All was
still. She tried the door opposite her own. It opened on a broad stair
that descended between two blank walls.
Closing the door noiselessly behind her, she went down, candle in hand,
and reached a corridor and a second stair. Across the foot of this
second stair shone a soft light. It was the same light that shone
outside her window above,—a passing moonlight that had gathered to
itself all the star-beams in the air and all the frosty reflections of
its own crescent splendor from snow-clad heights and icy peaks, and
fused them in a lambent silver.
Tacita set her candle on the stair, and went down into a long hall, of
which the whole outer side was an arcade, and beyond the arcade was a
piazza open to the night, and with a wide space beyond its parapet. As
in a dream, she passed the arcade; and before her lay San Salvador, the
city of the Holy King!