Chapter X: Part III (1)

"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.