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CHAPTER XXVIII.
WANDERINGS

A priest! – for the love of the Virgin, bring a priest!" groaned forth the wretched Chico, for it was he who had fallen under the murderer's steel. Lucius knelt beside him, and raised the head of Chico. Ghastly looked his face in the moonlight, which streamed upon it from an opening between the trees; the stamp of death already was there, seen in the livid hue and the glazing eye. The betrayer had been betrayed, the robber had been robbed, the false servant had been murdered for the sake of the gold to obtain which he had bartered his soul. Yet superstition still retained some hold on the dying wretch. Though his dull ear could not take in the words of Holy Writ uttered by Lucius in the faint hope that even at the last moment the sinner might find grace, Chico's dying breath was expended in calling for a priest to save him from the worst penalty of his crimes! But conscience was not to be soothed by fatal opiates in the moment of spirit and body's parting; Chico was not to be given that false comfort which has deluded so many at the solemn hour of death. Without a priest near him to hear confession or pronounce absolution, the soul of the murdered man passed forth to its dread account.

Chico was dead, – no one could look on the face of the corpse and doubt that all was over. Lucius gently laid down on the turf the head that he had been supporting, and spread Chico's mantle over his mangled body. The Englishman then rose from his knees, and went up to the mule, which lay stiff and dead. Lucius could but conjecture that, in the struggle between Chico and those who had slain him, the robber's carbine might accidentally have been discharged and have killed the beast of burden, as it seemed to have but one wound, and that from a bullet. Lucius, with a strange sensation, as if he were robbing the dead, examined the load which was still on the back of the mule. He removed the sacking in which it was wrapped, and then, even by the uncertain light of the moon, easily recognized the treasure-box, with its hinges and bands of metal, by the description of it which he had received from Inez.

"The treasure is then actually in my possession!" thought Lepine, scarcely able at first to realize that success in his difficult search had indeed been obtained. "But my difficulties are by no means over. The robbers may return to this spot – they will not readily abandon so rich a booty." Lucius put down the box on the ground, and took the precaution of reloading his pistol, that, should the murderers come back to seize the fruit of their crime, they at least should not find him unarmed. Conquering a strong feeling of repugnance, Lucius also went to the corpse of Chico, and possessed himself of the large clasp-knife which was stuck in the dead man's belt. It was unopened and unstained; the assailants of the miserable man had given him no time to draw forth his weapon.

Lucius was now at least armed for any encounter; but the more he thought over his position, the more difficulties appeared to surround it.

"I cannot carry so heavy a box as this back to Seville on my shoulder; and even had I the strength to do so, how could I hope to pass unchallenged through the city at night, bearing so suspicious-looking a burden? It is likely enough that I should be arrested as guilty of robbery, perhaps of murder besides, for the blood of that wretched Chico now stains my garments!" Lucius flushed at the mere thought of being thrown into prison as a criminal, and under circumstances which might render it difficult – nay, almost impossible – for him, a foreigner, to make his innocence clear. He could produce no witnesses in his defence; he would, he feared, have interested accusers, and prejudiced judges.

The result of the young man's anxious reflections was a resolve to bury the treasure which he could not remove. Lucius at once began his search for some favourable spot in which the box might be thoroughly hidden from view. It must not be too near the scene of the murder, lest the robbers, recovering from their alarm, should return and find it; and it must be in some locality which Lucius himself should be able to recognize when he should revisit the spot. The young Englishman searched for some time before he could satisfy himself in regard to these necessary points.

Lucius fixed at last on a spot just outside the thicket, where in a rough bank there appeared a hole, probably the burrow of some wild creature. A neighbouring palm, towering high above the other trees of the wood, formed a natural landmark. Lucius, with the knife which he had taken, began to enlarge the hole, that it might be wide and deep enough to conceal the box of treasure.

Perhaps even the firm nerves of the young man had been somewhat shaken by the horrors of that night, for never before had Lucius found any task so tedious, nor felt such fear from the slightest sound. Often did he interrupt himself to listen, when the wind shook the branches or rustled the leaves, almost certain that he could detect the noise of footsteps, and in constant expectation of being assailed from behind, while his hands were engaged with his work.

"I am ashamed of my weakness. Where is the boasted courage of an Englishman? – I am like a nervous girl!" muttered Lucius, when for the twentieth time he had turned his head to look round, that a foe might not take him unawares. "It is harder to await the approach of danger alone, and in the dead hours of night, with the brain excited by a scene of murder such as I have just witnessed, than it would be to encounter any open danger under the clear light of day. There! – happily my task is over at last!" exclaimed Lepine, as he covered in the entrance of the hole in which he had buried the box. "The plate and jewels of Alcala are safe, and nothing remains for me to do but to find my way back to the city."

But again difficulties beset the young stranger, who had never before traversed the cross-country way along which his pursuit of the robbers had led him. It would perhaps have been easy to Lucius to have retraced his steps if he had had daylight to guide him, but the beams of the moon were not sufficient to direct his course through that wild and desolate tract. Lucius wearied himself in vain attempts to regain the highroad to Seville. Seen by the uncertain light, one clump of trees so much resembled another that none could serve as a landmark. Of dwellings there seemed to be none.

Lucius came at last to a stream, on whose sluggish current the moonshine faintly glimmered. He was at least certain that he had crossed no brook when following the track of the thieves, therefore he must have diverged from the way. The weary wanderer was glad to slake his thirst by the stream, and he then, by means of its water, removed as completely as he could the dark red stains from his dress.

"There is no use in my wandering further till day dawn and show me the way," said the youth to himself. "I will lie down and try to sleep. There is little hardship in passing a night on the ground in such a climate as this, and under such a glorious sky."

Before Lucius gave way to the drowsiness which now overpowered him, he repeated, with the simple faith of a child, the prayer which he had first learned at his mother's knee, at the close of it returning fervent thanks for preservation in great danger, and almost unhoped-for success in a difficult quest. With Lucius and Aguilera religion showed its power over the soul in somewhat different ways. Lucius had not the impetuosity of character, the passion which, under the veil of reserve, animated the Spaniard born under more southern skies. Alcala's devotion had all the fervour of a first love. Had he continued to be a Romanist when his deepest feelings were stirred by religion, he would probably have become a missionary or a monk – have been a Dominic in asceticism, or a Xavier in active zeal. Alcala's love for his newly-found Lord was like a glorious stream bursting from mountain snows, springing over every obstacle, throwing up diamond spray, and wearing its own bright rainbow as a jewelled tiara. The religion of Lucius was a current, quiet but deep, which had flowed on through childhood, so that not even his mother could have told where it had first risen to light. Lucius would not, like Alcala, have begun his work of ministering to souls by reading aloud in a sick-room or preaching in a prison, no more than he would, like Alcala when yet unconverted, have dared death in the Plaza de Toros from an overstrained sense of honour. The one man was an Englishman, the other a Spaniard, and each showed national characteristics; but both had given themselves heart and soul to the Saviour, sought to live to His glory, and would have died for His sake.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE EARTHQUAKE

Alcala, in his noisome prison, might well have envied Lucius his couch on the earth, and the pure fresh breezes which fanned the slumberer's brow. Whenever the prisoner awoke, it was with a sensation of stifling suffocation, which made him doubt how long his physical powers could hold out.

"Perhaps," thought Alcala, "a messenger more speedy than Spanish justice may one day come to release me. In the meantime let patience have its perfect work, my heavenly Father will bring a blessing out of all;" and, composed by such reflections, the cavalier would sink into slumber again. It was well that Alcala was able thus to snatch some hours of sleep, for the coming day was to be one of the most eventful and exciting ones of his life.

It has been said, "Happy is the nation that has no history;" the words express wisdom condensed into wit; we read its truth in its converse. In England, during late years, the progress of political events has produced none of those sudden, violent convulsions which shake society to its centre; the movement has rather resembled that of the earth in its orbit, so quiet and regular that the bulk of the people scarcely know that motion goes on. But in unhappy Spain, instead of calm progress, there has ever and anon come a violent shock, as of an earthquake, overturning loftiest houses, throwing down highest pinnacles into the dust; an upheaving of the earth which, while it destroys much that is evil, endangers much that is good. We can only look for settled peace and prosperity in Spain to days when the Bible shall guide the counsels of her Senate, and control the passions of her people.

Not many hours had passed since the light of morning, forcing its way through gratings into the prison of Seville, had aroused its inmates to commence, as they thought, the dreary monotony of another day, when even the dungeon's depths were stirred by a consciousness that exciting scenes were passing outside the walls. A look of expectation was on every face, every ear was bent to listen.

"Hark to the distant roar! One might deem that we were near the sea!" cried one of the smugglers.

"It's a sea, I warrant ye, that will send many a proud galley to the bottom ere the sun go down," observed a thief, whom his previous conversation had shown to be also a keen politician.

"It's a sea that won't be stilled by Claret's sprinkling drops of holy oil upon it!" said a gipsy; and what a devout Romanist must have deemed a profane jest, was received with a burst of laughter.

"Let the sea rage as it will," observed Diego the chulo to Aguilera, "so that it bear back to old Spain the noblest man that ever drew breath in her air. I'll drink the health of Prim yet in a bumper of wine, and down with – "

The chulo had not time to conclude his sentence, when the louder, nearer noise of vivas from a thousand voices showed that the massive prison door no longer dulled outer sounds, or obstructed the free passage of the mob into the building. In surged the rushing human torrent; in one minute the corridor was, as their voices showed, filled by an excited rabble; the next minute the dividing door was burst open! The mob rushed into the dungeon, its walls resounded with loud vivas, re-echoed by most of the prisoners thus suddenly released from confinement, and let loose to swell the numbers of the wild crowd. The noise and confusion which prevailed were so great that it was difficult at the first instant to gain a clear idea of what had occurred; but it was soon as well known in the prison as it was already through every corner of Seville, that great and exciting news had arrived from Madrid during the course of the night. The reins of power had suddenly been wrenched from the hand of Queen Isabella; the sovereign of Spain had fled the kingdom; her minions had barely escaped with their lives; the fabric of government was overthrown, and no one could tell what would replace it. Like the criminals from the dungeon, all the fiercer passions of men were let loose, and who would have power to rule them?

If the prison of Seville had been suddenly filled almost to suffocation, it was nearly as suddenly emptied. There was nothing in it to tempt cupidity, nothing to retain the excited mob; and those who had been inmates of the gloomy abode were the most eager of the throng to rush forth into the free air. Robbers and murderers remembered that there might be palaces to plunder, and enemies to pursue. Aguilera found himself almost alone in the dungeon where, but a few minutes before, he had hardly had space wherein to breathe. Diego only remained by him still.

"Shall we follow the rest, señor?" asked the chulo. "There's not a jailer dare draw a bolt on us now. Methinks your prayer last night, like that of St. Paul, has been answered by an earthquake."

"I will return to my house, if I have strength to reach it," replied Alcala, making an effort to walk to the door. The cavalier was very desirous that at a time when anarchy and confusion prevailed throughout Seville, he should be in his home to protect the ladies of his family.

"You will scarcely reach the Calle de San José on foot, illustrious caballero," observed the chulo. "If it please you to wait in the corridor for awhile, it will go hard with me if I cannot find a mule, or some kind of conveyance, to bear you back to your home."

"I am greatly indebted to you, my friend," gratefully answered Alcala, who felt that without such aid as that proffered by Diego, it would be hardly possible for him to return to his dwelling.

"The debt is on my side, señor," said the chulo, looking steadily into the pallid face of the young cavalier. "You gave me such a message last night as was never brought to me by shaven monk or friar, – a message that Diego will never forget. Lean on my arm, señor; there's fresher air and a seat near the entrance. Hark! how the people are shouting and yelling now in the streets! They are as mad in their rush after freedom as the bull when the toril is opened, and he bursts into the circus, ready to tear down everything that stands in his way! It is to be hoped," added the chulo, uttering the words under his breath, "that this wild, excited people meet not the same fate as the bull!"

CHAPTER XXX.
PURSUED

We will now return to an English acquaintance.

If there was one thing on which Mr. Passmore prided himself more than another, it was on being a steady man of business, one "who stuck to his work, and did not care to take a holiday from the first of January till the thirty-first of December."

But if Peter Passmore regularly gave his week-days to work, he as regularly gave his Sundays to amusement. No idea of devotion was linked with the Sabbath in the mind of the money-making man. Passmore considered time wasted that was spent on anything that brought no immediate return of worldly profit or pleasure.

As surely as Sunday came round, unless Seville offered some peculiar attraction, so surely at Mr. Passmore's door appeared a travelling carriage drawn by two stout horses. This was to bear the manufacturer to some agreeable spot several miles out of the city, where he could, as he expressed it, "get beyond hearing of the din of the bells of Seville, and the smell of its cigarillos." A picnic basket was always carefully placed in the carriage, – a basket well filled with bottles of champagne, pâtés-de-foie-gras, or other such portable dainties. For Passmore was not a man to content himself with such fare as he might find in a Spanish posada. "I'll not make my Sunday dinner off puchero or saffron-soup," he would say, "or dishes prepared with oil, the very smell of which would spoil the appetite of a trooper!"

On this eventful Sunday morning Mr. Passmore, like every one else in Seville, had received tidings of the revolution which had taken place in the Spanish capital. But the manufacturer took little interest in politics, save as they might affect trade, especially trade in ironware goods. Whether Isabella or Carlos, prince or republican, Narvaez or Prim bore sway, it mattered nothing to Peter Passmore, so long as his furnaces blazed undisturbed, and he received a high price for his wares.

"Not take my Sunday drive! – why on earth should I not take it?" cried Passmore to the Spanish servant who had come to receive his orders. "The wheels of government may have come off, but my wheels roll steadily enough; Claret and his rascally crew have fallen, but my horses keep on their legs!"

But though Passmore found it easy enough to order his carriage, enter his carriage, and set out on his journey, he did not find it so easy on that September forenoon to drive through Seville. The coachman did his utmost to avoid meeting with obstructions from the excited rabble of the town, by driving through little frequented streets, but he had more than once to turn his horses sharply, and hurry them down some lane where, had another vehicle met that which he was guiding, both must have come to a stand-still, as there was not breadth enough of road to admit of their passing each other. More than once Mr. Passmore thrust his bald head and broad shoulders out of the carriage-window to demand, in an angry voice, whither the coachman was driving, and whether he meant to smash the vehicle through a shop-front. The shouts and vivas heard on turning every corner; the walls chalked over with political squibs or fierce denunciations against late rulers, – "muera Claret," "muera Rivadeo," – gave the Englishman a more intelligible answer to his questions than any which he received from his frightened servant.

"Drive over the bridge to Triana, and through it to the open country!" cried out Passmore to his coachman, in the best Spanish which he could command.

The driver did his best to obey, but the bridge itself was crowded with people, and it was no easy matter to make a way through the throng. There was no special enmity, however, at that time entertained against the English by the Spanish mob, and the more ferocious of the population of Seville did not chance to be at the bridge. Bare-legged boys, indeed, climbed up at the back of the carriage, and dark visages were thrust in at the windows; but as Passmore was perfectly ready and willing to shout viva from his stentorian lungs for any one and every one whom the mob chose to favour, no serious opposition was made to his onward progress. The bridge was safely although not rapidly passed over, the rabble were left behind, and the coachman, still seeking in the suburb, as he had done in the city, the quietest streets, had soon almost reached the nearer end of the Calle de San José.

Here the onward course of the carriage was again arrested, but in a different way. A voice, which was one of mingled command and entreaty, in tones which could scarcely be resisted, ordered the driver to stop. A hand on the rein of the nearer horse enforced the command. Before Passmore had time to shout out "Drive on!" the door of the vehicle was flung open, and to Peter's amazement a lady, shrouded in a military cloak, was rather thrust than lifted into the carriage. She was instantly followed by a Spaniard whose features were so distorted by fear, so disordered were hair and beard, that Passmore could scarcely recognize in the fugitive the proud governor of Seville, Don Lopez de Rivadeo. The lady, who was his daughter, wore neither mantilla nor veil; she looked as if she had been suddenly dragged away while in the act of performing her morning toilette. A cloak had been hastily thrown over the dress of Antonia; one of her feet was slipperless; her long black tresses streamed down her back; she was mute with horror and fear, and breathless from the rapid pace at which she had been hurried along.

"Drive on – drive for your life!" shouted out Rivadeo to the coachman, and the lash which followed the command made the horses bound forward furiously.

The governor was too full of alarm and impatience to get beyond reach of the vengeful people whom he had fleeced, cheated, and oppressed, and who would fain pursue him to the death, even to apologize to Mr. Passmore for so unceremoniously taking possession of his carriage. The manufacturer was revolving in his mind how he could best explain to the Spaniard that he was not a man to be made chivalrous or benevolent against his will, when, with a violent jerk, the coachman again stopped the horses. The carriage had just been turned into the Calle de San José, and the driver saw that the further end of the street was blocked up by a furious mob that, with yells like the howling of wolves, were demanding the blood of Don Lopez.

Antonia shrieked aloud in the agony of her terror; Rivadeo started up in the carriage and drew his stiletto, as one to whom no hope was left but that of selling his life dearly.

"What's to be done?" exclaimed Passmore, who retained his presence of mind, and a certain bull-dog courage characteristic of his race. "Here's an opening into a house which looks strong enough to resist anything short of cannon. Lift out the girl!" he cried, as he pushed open the carriage door; "be quick, or the ruffians will be upon us before we can get under cover."

There was no need to urge speed; in the twinkling of an eye the carriage was vacated by its terrified occupants. Antonia stumbled in her haste as she rushed under the archway of the house of the Aguileras, and was lifted up by the arm of a stranger who at the same moment was entering the dwelling.

"Ha, Lepine, you here!" exclaimed Peter Passmore; there was no time for another word. The last of the party had barely cleared the vestibule, and passed through the grating, which was instantly closed behind them, before the mob, bent on slaughter, swarmed into the archway.

"Muera Rivadeo! muera Rivadeo!" How horrible sounded that cry for blood yelled from the throats of the savage rabble, mingled with the clash of weapons furiously struck against the iron grating.

Antonia dropped her cloak as she staggered forward into the patio; the once proud queen of beauty, now disrobed and discrowned, with torn dress and dishevelled hair, stood in the presence of Alcala and Inez, – of the admirer whom she had slighted, the woman whom she had insulted! Rivadeo's daughter, who had shown no mercy, must seek for mercy from them!

But no feeling of triumph swelled in the breast of the gentle Inez on beholding the humiliation of one who had treated her with cruelty and scorn. The maiden's heart had in it now only room for tender compassion. With such sympathy as she might have shown to a dear friend in distress, Inez welcomed the fugitive lady, took her by the trembling hand, and drew her away from the patio into an inner apartment, that the horrible sound of voices demanding a father's life might be less audible to the ear of the governor's daughter. Inez made Antonia rest on her own bed, spoke softly and soothingly to her, and then left her to give directions to Teresa to bring wine to revive the spirit of the terrified lady. Inez could not bear to be herself long absent from her newly-recovered brother; she dreaded lest his harbouring Don Lopez should bring Alcala into new peril. But even if it were so, Inez would never regret that her hand had thrown open the grating to receive the hunted fugitives.

The delicacy and tenderness of Inez were by no means shared by Teresa. It was very unwillingly indeed that, in obedience to her young lady's orders, the old servant poured out for Antonia the very last glassful of wine from the very last bottle left in the once well-filled cellars. Teresa, her visage looking more grim and ill-tempered than usual, carried the beverage which she grudged to the daughter of Don Lopez de Rivadeo.

"There – take it, Donna Antonia," said Teresa bitterly, as she proffered the glass. "If I were you, it would choke me! Remember Don Alcala de Aguilera – he of whose love you never were worthy – lying bleeding, for your pride, under the horn of a bull!"

Antonia's hand shook so violently, that she could scarcely raise the glass to her lips.

"Remember Donna Inez," continued the tormentor, "the descendant of countless generations of heroes, stooping to sue for a boon from you, who were but too much honoured if a lady of the house of Aguilera deigned to enter your gate. Remember – "

"Oh, those yells! O holy Virgin!" shrieked Antonia, dropping the glass, as a louder ebullition of popular fury from without made her start in alarm. "Shut the door, woman! oh, shut it and bolt it! the wretches may rush in even here!"

Teresa turned, and gloomily obeyed, muttering half-aloud as she did so, "An Aguilera would have had no thought of self, when a father was so near to the knives of assassins!"