Chapter XV: Part 15

Jack accompanied the party which had gone to the wall facing the rear of the house. Under cover of the overhanging branches of a chestnut he climbed over the wall, which was about eight feet high. No sentry was posted at the back of the house. In a few minutes Jack had run up the garden and come to the back-door. Already he had heard sounds of merriment proceeding from the house. He placed his ear against the door, listening for footsteps within. Hearing nothing in the vicinity, he lifted the latch and slipped inside, finding himself in a large square stone-floored room, which had evidently been used as a storehouse for the gardener's tools. At the far side of the room was a door leading, as he knew, to the corridor surrounding the patio. As he cautiously opened this door his ears were saluted by a deafening babel from a room on the right, opening on to the corridor. To judge by the sounds, a large party of French troopers were there enjoying their evening meal. Shouts of laughter were mingled with bursts of song and the clatter of knives and crockery. The patio was pitch dark save where a beam of light fell across it from a window of the room on the right, and another from the kitchen on the opposite side. Hugging the rear wall of the patio, Jack made his way cautiously across its tiled floor to the window of the kitchen. A door opened into the kitchen from the corridor, opposite to the middle one of the three arches in the colonnade of the patio. Keeping well in the shadow, Jack saw several Frenchmen leave the kitchen carrying dishes and flagons, and cross the patio to the room whence the boisterous sounds were proceeding. He saw also another man, a tall fellow, whom in the half-light he seemed to recognize, carry a dish into a room at the farther end of the corridor, and close the door behind him. While the door was open Jack heard a burst of song from within. Evidently some of the Frenchmen were also regaling themselves there.

Peeping in at the kitchen window, he saw the gardener, now alone. He tapped. The Spaniard looked startled for a moment. Then a light of recollection came into his eyes. He made hurriedly for the door, and in another moment was with Jack.

"I've a hundred men outside," whispered the latter. "Where are the officers?"

"In the room at the end, Senor."

At this moment the door of that very room opened again, and the tall servant came out, and turned down the corridor at the farther end of the patio.

"He is going to the cellar under the stairs for wine," whispered the old man. "Curse them! They are drinking my old master's store of Valdepenas."

The man had left the door open, and from within the room came the sound of a mellow baritone voice trolling out a sentimental ditty:

"J'ai fait un bouquet pour ma mie,
Un bouquet blanc;
J'ai mis mon coeur dedans,
Dedans mon bouquet blanc.
Comm' nous partions, v'la qu'elle cri-i-e:
'Oh! reviens t'en.'
'Marche!' dit mon lieutenant.
Je lui laiss' mon bouquet blanc.
J'ai mis mon coeur, j'ai mis mon coeur dedans,
Dedans mon bouquet blanc."

Shouts of applause followed the last words. Immediately afterwards the tall servant returned with a huge flagon, re-entered the room, and shut the door.

"Hombre," said Jack in a whisper, "you must go into that room."

"But, Senor, I'm afraid for my life. There's a big hound of a Frenchman there whose very voice makes me shiver."

"You must go in. I caught sight of a screen as that man entered just now. All I want you to do is to go in and show yourself--ask if they are fully supplied--and give me time to slip in behind you; then wait outside the door till I call."

The old man hesitated for a moment, then plucked up his courage and walked along the corridor, Jack following. The Spaniard opened the door, and was instantly ordered to go about his business. He moved back at once, but meanwhile Jack had slipped inside the room, and found that in an angle of the four-leaved screen he could conceal himself, not only from the persons in the room, but from anyone passing through the door. He quietly slit a hole in the screen with his penknife, and peeped through.

Around a ponderous old table of black oak, illuminated by a dozen wax candles and covered with dishes and flagons and glasses, sat four men. At the head, with his braided scarlet coat open from the neck, sat a fat, red-faced, big-moustachioed officer, whom Jack recognized at once as the blusterous commissary from whom he had coaxed such valuable information at Olmedo. At the foot sat a French captain, who was already half-drunk; on the other side was a young lieutenant, with pink cheeks. With his back to the door there was a man in Spanish dress, who at that moment beckoned forward the tall servant to fill the captain's empty glass. As the man moved round the table, Jack caught the glitter of Perez' one eye, and at the same instant recognized the seated Spaniard as Miguel Priego himself.

Listening, Jack was amused to find that Commissary Gustave Taberne had lost nothing of his braggadocio.

"Parbleu, Senor Don What-do-you-call-yourself, this is wine of the right sort. Nothing in this world is so soul-satisfying as good Valdepenas after a hard day's work. Mind you, I say 'after'. I'm not like Captain Horace Marie Etienne d'Echaubroignes yonder, who'll drink in bed, on horseback, or in a pig-stye--it's all one to him. No; the emperor would call me a pig if I got drunk before my work was over. I can drink a gallon without staggering, and have a bottle at my hand without touching it; but when my duty is done--ah ca! then I can fill my skin in comfort, and sing a song with any man."

The long-named captain scowled at the reference to himself, bent forward over the table, and stuttered:

"Monsieur l'inten--l'intendant, do you mean that for a--a reflection?"

"Not at all, not at all, monsieur le capitaine. It was a compliment--to your versatility and your--h'm!--capacity."

"Eh bien!" rejoined the captain, lifting his glass unsteadily, "if you mean it that way--"

The commissary winked at Miguel.

"J'ai fait un bouquet pour ma mie,
Un bouquet blanc,"

he hummed. "Tiens! Songs like that suit a gay young bachelor like you better than a man of my age, with a wife and family. Come, Senor Don Something-or-other, sing us one of your Spanish songs--a serenade such as your gallants sing by night under their lady's window. Tol-lol-di-rol! Come now--sing up."

"Really, monsieur, after hearing your excellent voice, I do not feel able to enter into competition with you," said Miguel stiffly.

"Ah bah! Allons! you are still in our debt. You did us a good service to-day, in truth; but remember, we found your lady-love for you yesterday. Ohe! her eyes, her cheeks, parbleu! I envy you the lovely--how does she call herself--la belle Juanita? Tol-lol-di-rol! Chantez, mon ami."

"We Spaniards are not accustomed to discuss such matters in mixed company," said Miguel, still more irritably.

"We Spaniards! Par exemple! I'm not a Spaniard; nor are you, my friend, to judge by your reception in the Spaniards' houses to-day."

His tone was decidedly nettled, and the young lieutenant looked uncomfortable, and seemed about to hazard a remark. The captain was solemnly drinking.

"Eh bien!" said the commissary, changing his tone. "There's no need for us to quarrel. The lovely Juanita is to be your bride; that is settled. We'll see what we can do with King Joseph to hasten matters. And so, without more words, let us drink a health to her!"

"Perez, another bottle," said Miguel.

The one-eyed servant came across the room, and Jack slipped out of sight between two leaves of the screen. The commissary sang on:--

"J'ai mis mon coeur dedans,
Dedans mon bouquet blanc.
Comm' nous pardons, v'la qu'elle crie:
'Oh! reviens t'en.'

Voila qu'il en revient!" (as Perez re-entered).

"You can go and get your own supper," said Miguel when the cork was drawn.

Perez left the room. As soon as he had gone, Jack, relying on the commissary being engrossed with the bottle, opened the door an inch, and beckoned the old Spaniard in.

"Now, Senor Don What's-your-name," said the commissary, "we Frenchmen will drink a bumper to the fair Spaniard, the black-eyed beauty. Messieurs, aux beaux yeux de la belle Ju--an--i--"

He had lifted his brimming glass half-way to his lips, and turned with a fat smile towards Miguel, when he paused, his hand stayed in mid-air, and he broke off in the middle of Juanita's name. Advancing towards him from behind the screen he saw a young Spaniard, with a drawn sword in his right hand, and in his left a pistol, cocked and pointed.

"You will excuse me, messieurs," said Jack quietly, "intruding upon you thus unceremoniously--pray keep your seats," he added, as the lieutenant pushed back his chair, and the fuddled captain half rose. "In fact, I shall take it so ill if you move but a hair's breadth that I cannot answer for my nerves!"

For all its banter, Jack's tone had in it so much of deadly earnestness that the officers sank limply back into their seats, the instinctive movement towards sword and pistol arrested as if by a sudden palsy. Miguel had remained on his chair without moving a muscle. With him the French were four to one, for as a combatant the old man did not count; but each of the four knew that the first among them to take up the gage would fall instantly to Jack's pistol, and the knowledge dulled the edge of their courage.

"Hombre," continued Jack, addressing the old gardener, "bolt the door."

The man was trembling in every limb, but hastened to obey the order.

"That is right. Now, feel in my left-hand pocket. You will find a whistle. You have it? Then open yonder window and blow three times."

The man went to the window behind the commissary, opened one of its leaves, and blew three shrill blasts. While this was going on, the four sat helplessly in the same position in which Jack had surprised them. The lieutenant's pink cheeks had paled; the commissary's rubicund features had become like mottled soap; the captain was red with sottish indignation; Miguel had never moved. Jack could only see his back.

"With your permission, messieurs," Jack went on, "this good man will make a little collection. Hombre, relieve that gentleman at the head of the table of his sword and pistol. No, no; not this side of him. You may get hurt if you come between us, and we cannot spare a good Spaniard--can we, Don Miguel? Go round him. That's right. Now bring the weapons and put them on the floor behind me. So. Now, go round in the same way and get the next gentleman's arms."

Before the man reached the lieutenant, a confused hubbub came into the room from the front of the house through the open window--the clash of steel, the report of firearms. Almost at the same moment loud sounds of the same kind came from the direction of the patio. The old servant hesitated, stood still, his fingers working nervously.

"Go on, hombre," said Jack sternly, his pistol still pointed.

While the uproar on both sides gathered strength, the Spaniard tottered towards the lieutenant, and with shaking hands disengaged his sword and pistol, which he placed alongside of the commissary's on the floor behind Jack. He was just repeating the process of disarmament with the captain when loud shouts were heard at the door, followed by heavy blows from the butts of muskets. Apparently the French troopers had been driven across the patio, and were seeking their officers in the inner room. Jack did not move a muscle, but he devoutly hoped that the door would stand the strain; otherwise the window was his only chance, though in any case he could not desert the old man.

The noise outside provided a strange contrast to the quietness within. Almost silently the Spaniard had disarmed three of the four feasters. It was now Miguel's turn. In advancing towards him the old man, alarmed by the tremendous thunderings on the door behind him, and by a bullet that crashed through one of the panels, incautiously stepped between Miguel and Jack. In an instant, with an extraordinary muscular effort for so slightly built a man--an effort nerved doubtless by the knowledge of what his fate would be if he fell into the hands of his countrymen,--Miguel seized the man by the middle, and, swinging him round so as to make of him a screen between himself and Jack, dashed towards a curtain of arras that apparently overhung a doorway on the opposite side of the room. At the same moment a number of Spaniards, headed by Antonio, came headlong through the open window.

"Secure the Frenchmen!" shouted Jack, springing after Miguel. He could not fire. When he reached the curtain he stumbled over the old Spaniard, whom Miguel flung back at his pursuer as he dashed through the door into the dark anteroom beyond. Jack recovered himself in an instant, but Miguel had disappeared, and when Jack had followed him into the darkness he heard him stumbling over furniture on the other side of the room. Then began a desperate chase. As is common in Spanish houses, room opened into room, and Jack pursued the traitor through door after door, occasionally catching a fleeting glimpse of him by the moonlight filtering through the windows of rooms on the outer wall, but losing him again in the darkness before there was time to fire. At last Miguel, gaining a slight lead, was able to open a window at the back of the house, and sprang out into the garden, flinging the leaf of the window back almost in Jack's face. Outside he fell sprawling on the ground, but was up in an instant, and rushed madly down the path cutting the garden in two.

Jack leapt through the window after him, stumbled, recovered himself, and was off after the fugitive. Tearing through the bushes that had overspread the path, he flew along, saving his breath, setting his lips, fiercely determined to bring the wretched man to book at last. Miguel had reached the wall; with the agility of despair he sprang at it, and was over. Jack was a better runner; he made as little difficulty of the wall; pursuer and pursued were now in full career through the olive plantation. Miguel's breath was failing; he knew that he could not escape. Stopping suddenly in an open glade, he turned round, and a bullet whistled past Jack's head as he closed with his quarry. The headlong rush had spoiled Miguel's aim.

Disdaining to use his pistol, Jack at once engaged Miguel with his sword. The Spaniard stood fiercely at bay, panting with his exertions, his face showing livid with fear in the pale moonlight. There were a few rapid passes; then with a groan he dropped his sword, his forearm gashed from wrist to elbow.

"Hold!" he gasped. "I am at your mercy. Spare me!"

Jack dropped the point of his sword.

"What--are--you--going--to--do--with--me?" panted Miguel.

"Do with you? There is only one thing for me to do: deliver you to your fellow-countrymen. They shall judge you."

"Not that, for the love of God!" was the agonized reply, whispered rather than spoken. "You know what that means! Spare me that! Rather finish what you have begun. For old time's sake you would not throw me to those wolves. Ah! their fiendish tortures! See! have done with it; strike here!"

He tore open his shirt and bared his bosom to the sword. It was well acted, but Jack was not for a moment deceived. Miguel, he knew, had not the slightest expectation of being taken at his word. Yet the alternative! When once the guerrilleros had him in their power there would be no torture too horrible for the renegade and traitor. Jack remembered with a shudder the tales he had heard--even those told him by Miguel himself in Salamanca. Could he deliver the wretch, vile though he was, to so awful a fate? Could he allow the traitor to go free? It was a painful dilemma.

So they stood while a man might count ten.

There was a crackle in the undergrowth, the sound of a light footfall, and, lifting his sword, Jack half-turned. As he did so a heavy form struck against him. He felt a scorching pain between the shoulders, and pitching heavily forward sank unconscious to the ground. The dilemma had solved itself.

*CHAPTER XXXI*

*Doctor Grampus and a French Cook*

An Amateur--Pantomime--At Cross Purposes--Miguel's Pocket-book--Links--In Cipher--Potatoes--Monsieur Taberne on Duty--The Compelling Onion

When Jack came to himself it seemed to him that he was in a shaded room by an open window, for the air gently fanned his temples, and he saw a wide stretch of blue sky. He turned his aching head.

"Hullo!" said a voice in English.

"Hullo!" murmured Jack in reply, automatically, not knowing what he said. He looked with puzzlement at the speaker, a tall, stout young fellow in guerrilla costume.

"There, I wagered you wouldn't know me in this rig. Don't you remember Dugdale, at Salamanca--Percy Dugdale, don't you know?"

"The Grampus!" whispered Jack.

"The very same. I might have bet you'd know Grampus better than my good old respectable honoured ugly name. Here, drink this."

He held a cup to Jack's lips. After drinking, Jack closed his eyes and fell asleep.

"Where am I?" he asked, waking an hour later.

"Feel better? That's grand. Where are you? High up among the hills, in a sort of cave, lying on a pile of blankets, with a splendid outlook over--well, nowhere in particular."

"In the hills!" repeated Jack feebly. "How did I get there? I can't remember. Is anything wrong with me? I don't seem to be able to move. I don't feel right."

"There's gratitude! Why, you're as right as a trivet. You're really doing splendidly! Now, you're not to talk. Doctor's orders."

"Oh!"

Jack was silent for a moment, and dozed away again.

When he woke, Dugdale came towards him from the entrance of the cave.

"What's the matter with me? How do you come here? I can't remember anything."

"I said you were not to talk. Doctor's orders."

"Tell the doctor I want to see him."

Dugdale chuckled.

"Bet it'd be no go. Truth is, I'm the doctor. I've pulled you through, and when I get home I'm going to demand a diploma from the doctors' college or whatever it is gives a man a licence to be a sawbones."

"I must know all about it. I can't remember. How long have I been ill?"

"Nearly three weeks. Now, if you'll promise not to get excited, I'll tell you what happened. You know a man named Antonio?"

"Yes, of course; he helped me in Saragossa."

"Well, if he weren't a friend of yours I'd punch his head. He is the leader of this band of ruffians that scooped me up, two months ago, when I was riding over the hills to see the fun at Saragossa. Antonio wasn't with them then. I couldn't understand a word they said. They couldn't understand a word I said. I roared 'Inglese! Inglese!' till I was sick. No good. They kept me with them and made me get into this outrageous toggery, and with them I've been ever since, like a canary in a cage."

"But--"

"You mustn't talk. Doctor's orders. Lucky for you I was here, or they'd have sent you to kingdom come. With their nasty messes!--ugh!"

"Where did you get your medicines, then?"

"Silence! Don't believe in medicine. Bet Antonio three to one in Frenchmen--only he couldn't understand--that I'd pull you through on cold water; and I've done it,--thank God!"

The sudden change to earnestness in Dugdale's tone was almost comic.

"And you were pretty bad, I can tell you. Raved like one o'clock. All about Pomeroy and Pepito, and some chap whose name rhymed with ass, and Mig Prig--most about Mig Prig,--and you laughed and shouted 'Fire the mine!' and 'Pommy, I'll punch your head,' and all sorts of funny things."

"But what made me ill?"

"A villainous stab in the back. By gum! if I had the beast here I'd trounce him, I bet I would. You and Antonio had captured a foraging-party of French at a country-house down there; you tackled the officers single-handed; dashed plucky of you, begad! and you sprang out after a scoundrelly Spaniard who escaped, a fellow in French pay; and afterwards you were found among the olives with a hole in your back and your sword covered with blood."

"I remember now," cried Jack. "I must get up. I must save Juanita."

He tried to rise, but found that he had no power.

"Juanita be hanged, whoever he may be. Lie still, and don't talk. I haven't finished yet. Wish I'd been with you, but these confounded brigands won't let me stir from head-quarters. I've had the most disgusting luck. I came out to see the fun, and hanged if I've seen any at all. Well, they found you with a hole in your back and brought you here, and they were in a deuce of a way about you. They had a score or more of French prisoners with them, including officers, one of them a fat, red-faced fellow--"

"I remember it all now. That's my friend the commissary."

"Well, he's peeling onions at this moment. A little change for him, but all in the same line of business. It was he told me what had happened; lucky I can make out two French words out of ten. By Jove! what bloodthirsty ruffians these Spaniards are! If it hadn't been for me all the prisoners would have been garroted or roasted before slow fires, or something. When I saw what was in the wind my blood boiled. I couldn't stand that; no Englishman could; so I made 'em a speech. Lord! I never knew I could rattle it off so; I must go into Parliament. Of course they couldn't understand what I said, but I threw my arms about, and pointed to my neck, and shook my head, and generally played the goat, as I've seen 'em do at the hustings; and they made out what I meant, and so the prisoners are here still,--except the captain, who died of over-drinking."

At this moment Antonio came quietly into the cave; he had been in and out during Jack's periods of unconsciousness, and now showed every mark of delight at his impending recovery.

"The saints be praised, Senor!" he said. "We feared you would die. We should have grieved."

Jack was touched by his simple sincerity.

"I am not gone yet," he said, smiling, "thanks, I understand, to my friend Senor Dugdale here."

"He is a clever doctor, Senor," said Antonio.

"He tells me that you have the Frenchmen we captured at Morata."

"Si, Senor, and another lot too."

"Indeed! It is well that he managed to persuade you to do them no harm."

"What does the Senor mean?"

"My friend Senor Dugdale tells me that you were going to torture the prisoners, and he made a speech and--"

"Oh, that!" exclaimed Antonio, with a wave of the hand. "We didn't understand. We thought the Senor wanted us to cut all their throats; but I knew you would not like that."

Jack became almost hysterical with laughter at this explanation, and Dugdale bundled Antonio out of the cave, and told Jack he must go to sleep again. He allowed no more talk on that day, but the patient was so much better next morning that he made no objection when Jack asked to see the guerrillero again.

"I want to hear what has happened," said Jack to him. "I am anxious."

"I know, Senor; but there is no need. The day after we got back with the prisoners, the gitano Pepito came and said the Senorita Juanita had been captured by the French and was living with a colonel's lady in Morata. I got my men together and we went down at once, and in the night surprised the French, killed a great many, and captured the rest. But the Senorita was not among them. We found the colonel's lady; she told us that the Senorita had escaped."

"Where is she?" asked Jack anxiously.

"We do not know, Senor. The boy Pepito was frantic; he said you would punish him for losing the lady, and he went away to find her. He has never come back."

"Did he say anything about Senor Priego--the man who was in Saragossa, you remember?"

"He said that Senor Priego was with the French who captured the Senorita, but no more."

"And you did not capture him at the house? It was he I was fighting in the olive-grove."

"Por Dios, Senor, if I had known that! When we found you lying on the ground we let a few minutes slip. We thought you were dead, Senor. Then we searched all around, but we could find no one. Was it the cursed afrancesado that wounded you, Senor?"

"No. It was someone who came behind my back; his servant, I have no doubt. He has twice attempted my life."

Antonio swore a hearty oath, and vowed a terrible vengeance should either Priego or his servant fall into his hands. Jack was much perturbed. He hoped that Juanita in escaping from the French had escaped also from Miguel, but the latter had much to gain by not letting her slip through his hands.

"There is one thing, Senor, yet to be told," added Antonio. "In the morning, when we were bringing away the prisoners, one of my men found this at the back of the house, lying on the grass."

He produced a leather pocket-book, which he handed to Jack.

"I can't have this," said Dugdale, entering at this moment. "You're not well enough yet to be bothered with business."

"You will do me more good by letting me get to the bottom of things. My hand's all wobbles. Take the pocket-book, old fellow, and tell me what is in it."

Dugdale opened the case, and, taking out a number of papers, unfolded them one by one.

"All in foreign lingos," he said ruefully. "Can't read one of them."

"Let me see them," said Jack.

Dugdale handed him one of the papers. It was a pass through the French lines, signed by Marshal Lannes. At the first glance Jack understood. The pocket-book must have been jerked from Miguel's pocket when he fell on escaping from the house. Jack examined the papers eagerly. The second was a note from the marshal's aide-de-camp Saint-Marc: "In consideration of Monsieur Priego's services to the Government of His Majesty King Joseph, his excellency will use his influence with the commandant at Bayonne to facilitate the interview sought by Monsieur Priego". The third was a memorandum evidently relating to private business. The fourth was a long blue paper, on unfolding which Dugdale cried:

"By George, Lumsden, this is curious! Hanged if there isn't your name here!"

Jack took the paper with still more eagerness. He saw at once that it was in the same handwriting as the letter he had received from Don Fernan Alvarez at Salamanca. It was in Spanish, addressed to Mr. Lumsden, and Jack had only to read a few words to be assured that this was the very letter entrusted to the charge of General Palafox--the letter whose disappearance had so much perplexed him. Before he had read more than two or three lines, however, Antonio broke in:

"Senor, I know that paper. I saw it often in the hands of Pablo Quintanar in Saragossa. He used to take it out of his pocket every night and read it, and always when he came to a certain place he stopped, and frowned, and cursed. I am sure it is the same."

In a flash the mystery of Quintanar's assassination was made plain to Jack. Miguel must have discovered in some way that the letter was in the possession of the guerrillero, and the wretched man had been slain from behind by one-eyed Perez while Miguel tried to wrest the paper from him. Jack was aghast at this additional proof of Miguel's villainy; his heart misgave him as he thought of what might be Juanita's fate.

He read the letter. It gave a clear narrative of the events of which Juanita had told him--Don Fernan's making up of the accounts of the business, the journey from Barcelona to Saragossa, the ambush on the road, the suspected treachery of Miguel Priego. Then followed a declaration of the old merchant's intentions in regard to his property. In the last sentence he stated that the place where the treasure had been concealed was known only to his servant Jose, but that the secret was contained in a short postscript, which could only be read in the light of a private communication made to Jack himself in Salamanca.

Jack looked eagerly at the postscript. He uttered an exclamation of joy as he realized that Miguel must have found the letter useless to him. For the postscript consisted of a single line of sprawling uneven capital letters, set close together, not divided into words, and conveying to the uninitiated absolutely no meaning.

"What do you make of that?" said Jack, handing the letter to Dugdale.

"No good. Don't know a word of Spanish except pan, agua, cebolla, which I hear every day, and a few--interjections, I think they call 'em in grammar."

"I don't mean the letter, I mean the postscript."

"The postscript!" He held the paper at arm's-length, shut one eye, and frowned. "H'm! Looks like a cat's swearing, or Welsh. Too bad even for Spanish. Some infant set to practise his capitals, eh?"

Jack smiled.

"I'm as much in the dark as you are. Perhaps you wouldn't mind making a copy of the letters, in case the original goes astray?"

"Very well. Bet you I'll make a dozen mistakes. It dazzles my eyes. You'd better call 'em out one by one."

Accordingly Jack read the twenty-nine letters off separately, and Dugdale, whose inaptitude with the pencil was clearly shown by the frequency with which he licked his lips, made laborious strokes on a sheet of paper taken from Miguel's note-book.

"There," he said, when the task was finished. "Looks a deal prettier than the original, don't it?"

In big boyish capitals Jack saw the following puzzling sentence:--

S E O S F L S A E O A P E J E J P J J F J P J X P A P P F

"It's all right, Grampus," he said, after comparing it with the original. "How long shall I be on my back here?"

"Can't say. Why?"

"Because I've something to do when we've discovered the cipher. You and I must do that, and, by all appearance, it will take time."

"No good asking me. Never answered a riddle in my life. Blinks of Merton tried me just before I came down. Strolled into my room one morning--Blinks always dawdles,--threw his leg over a chair, and piped up: 'Grampus, my dear, would you like to answer a question?' 'Well?' says I. 'Tell me,' says he: 'Why do birds in their little nests agree?' 'Bet you they don't always,' says I. He was put out; I could see it. He don't like a chap to be serious, you know. Yet he's a good sort; so to please him I said: 'Why do they, then?' 'Because if they didn't they'd fall out,' says he, and strolled away quite happy. I call that mighty clever, don't you?"

Jack made a rapid recovery. The fresh air, the good simple food, the unremitting care of Dugdale and Antonio, and perhaps, more than all, his own strong determination, soon set him upon his feet. When he was first allowed by the Grampus to leave the cave, he was much amused at the sight of Commissary Taberne sitting on an upturned pail, peeling potatoes, and singing as blithely as a bird:

"Ma mie,
Ma douce amie,
Reponds a mes amours;
Fidele
A cette belle,
Je l'aimerai toujours.

Si j'avais cent coeurs,
Ils ne seraient remplis que d'elle;
Si j'avais cent--"

"Bravo, monsieur, et bonjour!" said Jack,

"Ha! Qui est-ce que j'ai l'honneur de voir?"

The commissary sprang off his perch, catching at the bowl of potatoes just in time to prevent a cataclysm. He presented a queer figure as he stood there, in Spanish vest and pantaloons, with bare arms and legs, for it was a hot day. Laying his hand on his portly middle, he made a bow as low as he conveniently could.

"I congratulate you, monsieur," he said. "I am pleased to see you once more in health. Ah ca! but you have the courage, you English! It was magnificent--to come into the room alone and face me, Gustave Taberne, single-handed. Parbleu! you took me by surprise, or--Ah! and I congratulate myself that it was not my sword that wounded so admirable a warrior. Nom d'un tonnerre! that wretch, that scamp, that renegade, that Don Miguel What's-his-name--if I could catch him! Gr-r-r-r!"

"I hope you have been well treated, monsieur," said Jack politely.

The commissary shrugged.

"Me voici!" he said. "Here am I, a commissary-general of the emperor's, accustomed to feed huge armies, the winner of innumerable victories that others have the credit of,--and behold me, peeling potatoes for a herd of unwashed, thieving, villainous, abomin--"

"Stay, stay!" interrupted Jack. "I really cannot hear my friends abused."

"Pardon, monsieur. I for one moment forgot myself. I have feelings, I am sentimental, I am upset; I see myself on the road to glory; then, vlan! the vision dissolves; it is a mirage!"

"The marquisate is a little farther off, you mean, monsieur?"

"He quoi?"

Monsieur Taberne looked puzzled.

"Do you remember, monsieur," asked Jack, "a little inn at Olmedo, where one day last November you made your first acquaintance with the puchero, and honoured with your conversation a young Spaniard, about my own age, who happened to be able to speak a little French?"

"H'm! h'm! I have a slight recollection of the incident. I got a good deal of information out of the young cockerel, if I'm not mistaken."

Jack smiled.

"You were looking forward then, monsieur, to being made a peer of France, like Marshal Lefebvre, Duke of Dantzig. I am sorry that this little check has happened in your career. You promised then, you remember, to join me some day in drinking a bottle of Valdepenas--none of your tarred vinegar of Toro, you know--when your duty was done. You have one more potato to peel, monsieur. While you are doing that, no doubt my good friend Antonio will produce a bottle of Valdepenas from his store."

During this speech the commissary had stared at Jack in amazement.

"Par le sambleu!" he ejaculated, "it is the very same!"

He dropped down on his tub, his mouth agape, and mechanically took up his last potato, which he began to pare with the dexterity of long practice. He was evidently casting back to that November day, and racking his memory to recover the details of his conversation. Jack's eyes twinkled. The commissary caught his look, and, flinging the newly-peeled potato into the bowl, uttered a huge guffaw.

"Zut!" he cried, "I see twice, monsieur, that you are a dangerous person to meet. One needs to be of the greatest discretion. It is not only your sword that is formidable. Tenez: voici le Valdepenas! I had hoped you would have been my guest. N'importe; Valdepenas is Valdepenas. The fortune of war is now to you; perhaps on another occasion--"

"No, thank you," said Jack, laughing, "unless our two nations are at peace. Let me say, monsieur, how glad I am that you take your little mischance with so much philosophy. I am not in command here, of course, but if there is anything I can do--"

"Morbleu, monsieur, you can do me an infinite favour. The potatoes--they are nothing; but the onions!--sapristi! when one weeps for sentiment, it is noble, it is French; but when one weeps for onions, it is a degradation. Bien sur! precisement ca! allez!"

*CHAPTER XXXII*

*The Prisoner at Bayonne*

Running the Gauntlet--A Bait--Figments--Prophecy--Judas--At Large

"You will excuse a little delay, monsieur le colonel. The letter from Monsieur le Marechal Lannes is somewhat--indeed I may say very--unusual. We must assure ourselves that everything is en regle--a mere formality, but in official business we live by rule and regulation. Monsieur will understand."

The lieutenant-general in command of the port of Bayonne leaned back in his chair and smiled deprecatingly, at the same time eying his visitor with no little keenness. The stranger was a Spanish officer in the French service, and as such to be distrusted; and although his manner lacked nothing in ease and assurance, there was something in his bearing and expression that added to the Frenchman's instinctive suspicion. But from motives of prudence he forbore to explain that he was detaining his visitor until an aide-de-camp had ransacked the archives for an undoubted autograph of Marshal Lannes with which the letter brought by the Spaniard could be compared. For nearly half an hour the two chatted on indifferent subjects, the Spaniard growing more and more impatient, the Frenchman more and more apologetic. At last the aide-de-camp entered, and handed a document to the general, which the latter keenly scrutinized.

"I am glad to say, monsieur," he said, rising, "that I find his excellency's letter perfectly in order. I am delighted to make the acquaintance of one who, as the marshal informs me, has done good service to the emperor and to France, and, let us hope, to Spain. Captain Broussier will see that you are granted the most complete facilities for a private interview with the man Jose Pinzon. I understand that he is at present delirious--fever, monsieur, carries off too many of our prisoners,--but he has lucid intervals. For any service I may be able to render you, command me."

Captain Broussier led the way from the general's quarters near the Place d'Armes, across the St. Esprit bridge that spanned the Adour, to the grim citadel in which some hundreds of prisoners, Spanish, Portuguese, and English, were immured. Passing under the massive archway, they entered the great courtyard in which the unhappy captives were allowed to take exercise; some were sitting, the picture of dejection; others maintaining the semblance of cheerfulness; many endeavouring to add, by basket-weaving and similar light occupations possible within prison walls, to the wretched subsistence allowance doled out to French prisoners of war. A group of Spaniards, looking up as the two officers passed through the courtyard, caught sight of the afrancesado, and as they did so their attitude underwent an instant and extraordinary change. Listlessness gave place to the most intense interest; every man showed, each in his own way, the most passionate hatred of the new-comer. But for the presence of the two French sentries in the courtyard, and half a dozen more in the guard-house beyond the gate, they would have thrown themselves upon him as he passed. He caught the look of murder in their eyes and paled visibly, shrinking as if for protection closer to his companion, who noted the action and its cause, and smiled questioningly.

"Some men of--the opposite party--in Saragossa. Misguided, but dangerous; they bear me no good-will."

"If appearances go for anything, monsieur, those basket knives of theirs would have some pretty work to do but for the bayonets of our men yonder."

The Spaniard winced. He was clearly relieved when they passed from the courtyard into a long corridor leading to the room used as a hospital for the prisoners. There were several occupants, many in the last stage of disease, and the captain, having directed that a screen should be placed round the bed of the patient whom the visitor had come to see, left hastily. A visit to the hospital of the citadel was not without its dangers, for prison fever was no respecter of persons.

Upon a low truckle-bed in one corner of the room a man, shrunken to a skeleton, lay stretched, apparently at the point of death. He was conscious, for the light in his eyes was clear although dim, but so weak was his breathing, so wasted his figure, that at any moment it seemed the wan flame of life might flicker out. He turned his gaze slowly upon the stranger as he approached; then there came into his eyes the same look of inextinguishable hatred that had transfigured the wretched prisoners in the courtyard.

"Traidor!"

It was a mere movement of the lips, from which no sound issued; but the visitor, already unnerved, started as if stung; his face flushed, bringing into relief the livid scar across his brow. Then, collecting himself with an effort, he said, ignoring the unspoken insult:

"It pains me, my good Jose, to find you thus--sick and a prisoner. I have come a long way to see you, to bring you freedom--for the sake of old times. Fortunately I am not too late. A few more days in this place would have killed you; but we shall soon see what liberty and good nursing will do, eh, my friend?"

An eager light came into the sick man's eyes. In his feeble state he was unable to grasp the full import of what his visitor was saying. He was only capable of mastering one idea at a time. The word "liberty" had sent a sudden flash of colour into his cheek. The mere prospect of freedom, dim though it was, had banished for a brief moment his mortal antipathy to the man beside him. The walls of his prison-house fell asunder; he saw himself once again among his own people, the trusted servant of a beloved mistress whom he had sworn to serve, and whom his capture had left unprotected, exposed to all the dangers of a besieged city. The other, watching him keenly, was quick to note the changed expression of his face; and without giving the weakened intelligence time for ordered thought, he continued in the same tone of kindly interest:

"But I must first give you news of the senorita. I know, my good Jose, you care nothing for yourself. It is of her you think. I honour your fidelity; it is because of that that I am here."

"What of her? Tell me!" whispered the sick man. The voice was scarcely audible, but the eyes showed an agony of doubt and apprehension; he had wholly forgotten his distrust. He moved as if to raise himself; but he was unable to lift his head from the pillow.

"Make your mind easy; she is well, quite well. I left her with the wife of the old porter. She is a worthy woman, and devoted to the senorita. My influence with the government of King Joseph ensured the safety of your mistress after the fall of the city. She sends you the kindest messages. When you did not return from that brave sortie, she feared you were dead, and she grieved. But I learnt that you were a prisoner, and when I told her she clasped her hands and cried for joy, and bade me come at once to find you. 'Tell my good Jose that I shall know no peace until I am assured of his safety. I pray for him. He is much in my thoughts.'"

The sick man's eyes filled with tears. He would have lifted his hand to dash them away, but his strength was unequal to the effort. The visitor continued, his accent carefully modulated, gentle, persuasive:

"But, alas! my good friend, she is poor, very poor. The house in Saragossa is destroyed, burned during the siege. The house at Morata is pillaged by brigands. There is no rent from the estate; the people are all dispersed; and the good aunt is dead. The worthy porter and his wife have scarcely enough to keep themselves. It is terrible, this war; would that all good Spaniards thought with me that it is best to make peace with the king!"

The speaker bent forward, intently watching the effect of these words. As he had expected, a look of keen distress crossed the prisoner's face. Again he strove to rise, as if by raising himself he could shake off his intolerable weakness. He was suffering acutely. The visitor was silent for a while, giving the imagination of the sick man full play. Then he continued:

"I, alas! can do little to help. I am poor, my good Jose, miserably poor. I have sacrificed all--you will know how. I would willingly share my last crust with the senorita, but in this fatal war so many things may happen. I begged her to take shelter in a convent, but she would not; brave girl, she would stay to help her people! 'Jose,' she said, 'could assist us if only he were free. He alone knows what my poor father has done to provide for me. Go to him, Miguel; tell him of our distress; he will find a means of helping us.'"

"What would you wish me to do?"

The visitor, bending low, caught the whispered words. The man's clear eyes were upon him, and he checked the involuntary expression of satisfaction that crossed his face. But, instantaneous though it was, the sick man, strangely sensitive to shades of tone and manner, seemed to be instinctively aware of it, and the other was clearly ill at ease under his searching gaze.

"Well, my good Jose," he said hesitatingly, "your illness places us in a difficulty. I have here an order for your release" (he drew from his pocket a blue paper which might or might not be what he described); "I hoped that we should have been able to return to Spain together. You could have then placed the senorita beyond the reach of want; for from what she told me it is clear that your master left a large sum in your charge. But, alas! you are not at present able to travel. The best plan that I can think of is that you send the senorita instructions where she can find her property--you can either write her a letter or give me the message,--and I will see that you are released and nursed back to health. You can return to Spain when you are fit to travel."

The sick man feebly shook his head, whispering:

"I must not tell--anything. I swore it."

"Yes, you swore it, and you have kept your oath. But it was never Don Fernan's wish that the senorita should be allowed to--to starve while her fortune remained hidden. It is your duty to be guided by circumstances--by common sense."

The other winced, but still replied: "I cannot; I swore it. Not till the war is over."

Then, a ripple of impatience showing above his suave manner, the visitor said hastily:

"Certainly, but the war is over; the fall of Saragossa finished the war. Joseph is again king in Madrid."

"You are mistaken, Senor. If what you say is true, the war is only just beginning." There was a light in the man's eyes, a fierce energy in his whispered words, that seemed first to embarrass, then to anger his visitor.

"Well, my friend, if you will not listen to reason, if you prefer to allow your mistress to starve, I can do nothing more. I will give her your message." He rose from his seat. "And I shall at least have the satisfaction of being able to add that such an ungrateful rascal is dead; for in this hole you won't live another week, and you can't expect me to do anything for your release."

"Stay!"

The afrancesado caught the word and halted expectantly as he was turning away. With a supreme effort the sick man had raised himself on his elbow, and, struggling hard for breath, gasped out:

"Liar! Traitor! Spy! Do you think--I do not--do not see you--for what you are? Go back--go back, accursed afrancesado, to those who have--bought you. Out of my sight! The price of blood!--Judas!--the doom of Judas--awaits you--the doom--of--Judas!"

The afrancesado recoiled as at the stroke of a lash; then an ugly look crossed his face, and his hand sought the hilt of his knife. But even as it did so the man sank back half insensible, the gleam of fierce rage faded from his face, and while Miguel was hesitating whether to stay or go, the prisoner began to talk in a low but distinct voice, as repeating a lesson he had learned by heart.

"Yes, Senor, dear master, I swear it. I will watch over the senorita as long as I have life; I swear it. None shall ever know except the senor Ingles. In the garden--the old--"

His voice was dying away again into a whisper; the afrancesado bent eagerly over him to catch the feeble tones, and when he rose a look of mingled greed and malignant triumph shone in his eyes. He waited for a while longer, while the sick man continued to babble in the same strain, his voice occasionally rising so that it could plainly be heard by the sufferers in the neighbouring beds. Murmurs arose, and, helpless as they were, their mutterings struck the heart of the afrancesado with a cold chill of dread. Rising, and throwing one hurried backward glance at the now silent figure on the bed, he hastened from the room, pursued by the vengeful glance of all who were conscious enough to recognize him.

An hour later the sick man opened his eyes and looked around, as though fearing to meet once more the traitor's malign glance.

"What is that you were saying about a promise, and a garden, and a senorita?" whispered the prisoner in the next bed.

"Saying! When?" he asked with a note of mortal anguish.

"Just now, when the vile afrancesado was with you. Have you forgotten?"

The man waited a moment, expecting a reply. None came; the man had fainted.

The afrancesado did not leave Bayonne that night as he intended. Stricken with the prison fever, he took to his bed, and there lay for several weeks, tended with unstinted care by his one-eyed servant. When he recovered from his delirium he was eager to set out, as soon as his strength permitted, on his return journey to Spain, and was amazed to hear from the French commandant that he must consider himself a prisoner.

"Nonsense!" he said; "la prisoner! What have you against me?"

"The prisoner you talked with in the sick ward, monsieur--"

"Is he dead?" asked Miguel eagerly.

"He may be, but his body has not been recovered. His health rapidly mended from the day of your interview with him, and ten days ago he escaped by swimming the Adour--a marvellous feat for a man in his condition."

"Escaped!" screamed Miguel, starting up. "I must go, I must go at once, before it is too late!"

"Then you did not arrange the escape, monsieur?" said the Frenchman, surprised at the other's violence.

"Arrange it! Am I a fool? Am I mad? Arrange the escape of my worst enemy! I must go! He has gone to rob me; he will ruin me; I must go, before it is too late!"

His agitation was so sincere that, after a consultation among the French officers, the afrancesado was permitted, a few days later, to depart with his servant, and they rode southward out of Bayonne at a furious pace, the stones clattering, the dust flying behind, and all who saw them staring after them in amazement.

*CHAPTER XXXIII*

*Palafox the Name*

Nonplussed--In the Convent--A Warning--The Key--Permutations and Combinations--Light Ahead--Don Fernan's Message

One day the guerrilla camp in the mountains was thrown into some excitement by the sudden reappearance of Pepito. All the guerrilleros by this time knew something of the strange complications in which the English senor was involved. They had been constantly on the look-out for the gipsy boy whom he was so anxious to see; and when, on this sunny morning, the boy was seen bounding up the hillside, they flocked to him in a crowd, crying "Que hay de nuevo? Que hay de nuevo?" Pepito made them no answer. He had already caught sight of his master sitting some yards above him, and rushed forward with a piercing cry of delight.

"Found, Senor!" he shouted. "Found!"

Jack needed no telling who was found.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"Glad Senor is well, glad Senor is well!" shouted the little fellow. "The Senorita will be glad too. Oh, she will! When I told the Senorita--"

"Where is she?" repeated Jack impatiently.

"When I told the Senorita that Senor was ill, she jumped up; said she must come; but the old Busna looked ugly; said no; and I come to fetch Senor."

"Pepito, tell me at once where she is."

"Safe, at a convent near Carinena, Senor, all among the trees and flowers. Senor can go, now he is well, and I know who will be pleased. Yes, I know!"