Chapter XXII: Section EIGHT (2)

The glowing enthusiasm with which the old gentleman's singing was instinct, set Edgar's blood ablaze. A new world dawned on him. He knew, now, how to arouse himself from out his sickly mood, and under an impulse to deeds of valour, fight out the contest which was eating up his heart. He could not resist an eager desire to make the acquaintance of the man who had thus inspired him with new life. The door gave way at the pressure of his hand, but the moment he entered the room, the old man sprung from his bed with a cry of "Träidor" (traitor), and made straight at Edgar with a drawn dagger. Edgar succeeded in evading the well-aimed thrust by a skilful movement, and in grasping the old man, and holding him down on his bed.

While he thus held him, for he had but little strength at the time, he implored him in the most touching language, to forgive the stormy fashion of his entrance: he assured him that he was no traitor; but that on the contrary, what he had heard him sing had lighted up all the rage, the inconsolable pain, which had been tearing his breast asunder into an unslakeable desire for combat. He longed to hurry to Spain, there to fight for the freedom of the country. The old man gazed fixedly at him, and said, "Can it be possible?" and embraced Edgar, who, naturally, continued his assurances that nothing could induce him to forego his resolve, at the same time throwing his dagger down on the ground.

Edgar now learned that the old gentleman's name was Baldassare de Luna, and that he belonged to one of the most noble families of Spain. He was helpless and friendless, and had the prospect, unalleviated, of dragging out a miserable existence, far from home, without a friend or pecuniary resource. It was some time ere Edgar could succeed in infusing any hope or comfort into his heart: but when, at length, he most solemnly undertook to arrange for their escape to England together, new life appeared to circulate in the Spaniard's veins. He was no longer the old invalid, but an enthusiastic youth, breathing out defiance to his oppressors. Edgar kept his word. He succeeded in evading the vigilance of the spies, and in escaping with Baldassare de Luna to England. But it was not the will of fate that this brave and luckless man should see his native land again. He was prostrated by another attack of illness, and died in London, in Edgar's arms. A spirit of prophecy gave him to see the coming glory of his rescued country. Amid the latest prayerful whisperings which issued with difficulty from his lips stiffening in death, Edgar distinguished the word "Vittoria," and an expression of heavenly beatitude glowed on de Luna's countenance.

At the time when Souchet's victorious force was threatening to bear down all opposition and rivet the shameful foreign yoke more firmly than ever, to all eternity, Edgar arrived before Tarragona with Colonel Sterret's English brigade. It is matter of history that Colonel Sterret considered the position so insecure, that he would not disembark his troops. This our eager young soldier could not endure. He left the English force, and betook himself to the Spanish general Contreras, who was occupying the fortress with 8,000 Spanish soldiers. We are aware that Souchet's force took Tarragona by storm, notwithstanding the most heroic defence, and that Contreras himself, with a bayonet wound, fell into the hands of the enemy.

The scenes which passed before Edgar's eyes, displayed all the terribleness of hell itself. Whether it was on account of shameful treachery, or from incomprehensible carelessness on the part of those whose duty it was to attend to the matter, the troops who had to defend the principal _enceinte_ of the fort, soon ran short of ammunition. They for a long time resisted with the bayonet the incoming of the enemy through the gateway which had been forced: but when, ultimately, they had to retire before the urgency of his fire, they rushed across to the further gateway in wild disarray, and in confused masses: and as this gate was too narrow to admit of their passage, they had, therefore, to submit to a terrific massacre. Yet some 4,000 Spaniards--Almeira's regiment, with which Edgar happened to be at the time--managed to force their way through. With the courage of despair they broke their passage through the enemy's battalions which were there posted, and continued their flight towards Barcelona. They were fancying that they were in safety, when they were assailed by a terrible fire from some field-pieces, which the enemy had placed in position behind a trench cut across the road, bringing inevitable destruction into their ranks. Edgar was hit, and fell to the ground.

A violent pain in the head was what he felt when he recovered consciousness. It was dark night, and all the terrors of death permeated him as he heard the hollow groans and the heart-piercing cries which surrounded him. He managed to get upon his legs and creep along. When at length the morning began to break he found himself close to a deep ravine; but as he was about to go down into it a troop of the enemy's cavalry came slowly up. It seemed an impossibility to avoid being taken prisoner; but suddenly shots came dropping out of the thickest part of the wood, emptying several saddles, and presently a party of Guerillas made an attack on the remainder of the troop. He shouted out to his deliverers in Spanish, and they welcomed him gladly. He had only been struck by a spent ball, and soon recovered, so as to be able to join Don Joachim Blake's force, and enter Valenzia with it, after several engagements.

Who does not know that the plain watered by the Guadalquivir, where stands the beautiful Valenzia with her stately towers, is an earthly paradise? All the heavenly delightsomeness of a sky for ever fair penetrates and pervades the hearts and souls of the dwellers there, for whom life is an unbroken festa. And this Valenzia was now the theatre of a most bitter and bloody war. Instead of the dulcet tones of the lute, stealing like the cooing of doves up in the nights to the trellised windows, the place resounded with the hollow rolling of guns and ammunition waggons, the wild challenge of sentries, and the weird, mysterious murmur of soldiery marching through the streets. All joy was driven into dumbness. All the white faces, drawn by grief and horror, had written upon them the dread anticipation of terrible things imminent. The most furious execrations, offspring of inward fury, were showered upon the enemy. The Alameda--at other times the haunt of the gay world--was now a parade ground for the troops. Here Edgar one day, as he was standing alone, leaning against a tree, reflecting on the dark, adverse destiny which seemed to weigh upon Spain, observed that a man, far advanced in years, tall, and of haughty demeanour, who was walking up and down near him with long steps, stopped and scrutinized him keenly each time that he passed him. At last Edgar accosted him, enquiring courteously what in him had attracted such a share of his attention. "I see that I was not mistaken," he answered, whilst a gloomy fire flashed from beneath his black, bushy eyebrows. "You are not a Spaniard--and yet, if your coat does not belie you, I am bound to look upon you as one who fights on our side. And that strikes me as rather remarkable." Edgar, though nettled at the brusquerie of this gentleman's address, told him, temperately enough, what had brought him to Spain.

But scarcely had he mentioned the name of Baldassare di Luna than the old man cried out in much excitement, "Baldassare di Luna do you say? My beloved cousin! the dearest and most intimate friend I have left in the world." Edgar repeated all that had happened, not failing to mention the heavenly hopes with which Baldassare had taken leave of life.

The old man clasped his hands, raised his eyes to heaven--his lips moved--he seemed to be communing with his departed friend. "Forgive me," he said, "if a gloomy mistrust, which is foreign to my character, influenced me against you. Some time ago it was believed that the accursed knavery of the enemy had gone so far as to introduce foreign officers amongst our forces to act as spies. The incidents at Tarragona but too much encouraged suspicions of this kind, and the Junta has now determined to expel all foreigners. Don Joachim Blake, however, has insisted that foreign engineers, at all events, are indispensable to him, solemnly engaging, at the same time, to shoot down every foreigner at once who is subject to the slightest ground of suspicion. If you are a friend of my Baldassare you are undoubtedly a man of valour and honour. At all events, I have told you everything, and you can act accordingly." With this he took his departure.

The fortune of arms appeared to have completely abandoned the Spaniards, and the very courage of despair itself could avail nothing against the rapidly-advancing foe. Valenzia was hemmed in more and more closely on all sides, so that Blake, pushed to extremity, determined to force his way out with twelve thousand chosen troops. It is known that few succeeded in getting through, that the remainder were in part killed, in part driven back into the town. It was here that Edgar, at the head of the brave Ovihuela Rifle Regiment, managed to give a momentary check to the enemy, thus rendering the wild confusion of the flight less disastrous. But, as at Tarragona, a musket bullet struck him down at the crisis of the engagement. He described his condition from that moment till he regained clear consciousness as one inexplicably strange. It often seemed to him that he was in the thick of fighting. He would seem to hear the thunder of the cannon, the wild cries of the combatants--the Spaniards would seem to be advancing victorious, but as he was seized on by the joy of battle and starting off to lead his battalion under fire, he would seem to become suddenly paralysed, and sink down in unconscious insensibility. Then he would become clearly aware that he was lying on some soft bed, that people were giving him cool drink--he heard gentle voices speaking softly, and yet could not arouse himself from his dreams. Once, when he thought he was back in the thick of the battle, it seemed to him that he was grasped firmly by the shoulder, whilst a rifleman of the enemy's fired at him, striking him on the breast, where the bullet in an incomprehensible manner went slowly boring its way into the flesh with the most unspeakable torments till all sense of feeling sunk away into a deep, deathlike sleep.

Out of this death sleep Edgar awoke suddenly into full and clear consciousness, but in such strange surroundings that he could not form an idea as to where he might be. The soft luxurious bed with its silken curtains, was quite out of keeping with the small, low-roofed, dungeon-like vault of undressed stones in which it stood. A dim lamp shed a feeble light around--neither door nor window was discernible. Edgar raised himself with difficulty, and saw that there was a Franciscan friar sitting in a corner, seemingly asleep. "Where am I?" Edgar cried, with all the energy which he could concentrate.

The monk started from his sleep, trimmed the lamp, took it up, looked at Edgar's face by the light, felt his pulse, and murmured something which Edgar could not understand. He was going to interrogate the monk as to what had happened to him, when the wall opened noislessly, and a man came in whom Edgar immediately recognized as the person who had spoken to him on the Alameda. The monk called out to this person that the crisis was over and all would now go well. "Praise be to God," said the old gentleman, and approached nearer to Edgar's bed.

Edgar wished to speak, but the old gentleman prevented him, assuring him that the slightest exertion would be dangerous to him still. It was natural that he should be surprised at finding himself in such surroundings, but a few words would be sufficient, not only to put him at his ease, but to explain why it had been necessary to place him in this dreary prison.

Edgar now learnt all. When he fell wounded in the breast the intrepid "battle-brethren," in spite of the hotness of the fire, had taken him up and transported him into the town. It happened that in the thick of the confusion Don Rafaele Marchez (this was the old man's name) saw the wounded Edgar, and instead of his being sent to the hospital he was carried to Don Rafaele's own house at once, so that the friend of his Baldassare might have every possible care. His wound was serious enough in itself, but the peculiar danger of his condition was the violent nervous fever, traces of which had previously displayed themselves, which now broke out in all its fury. It is matter of notoriety that a tremendous fire had been kept up on Valenzia for three days and nights with the most terrible effect, that all the terror and horror of this bombardment spread abroad in this city thronged to excess with people--that the self-same populace, excited to fury by the Junta, after insisting that Blake should keep up the defence to the very utmost, turned round and demanded an immediate surrender under the most violent threats--that Blake, with heroic self-command, drove the crowds asunder by Walloon Guards, and then made an honourable capitulation to Souchet. Don Rafaele Marchez would not allow Edgar, sick unto death, to fall into the enemy's hands. As soon as the capitulation was arranged and the enemy within the walls of Valenzia, Edgar was removed to the vault, where he was safe against discovery. "Friend of my sainted Baldassare," (thus he finished his narrative) "be _my_ friend too. Your blood has flowed for my country--every drop of it has fallen seething into my breast, and washed away every vestige of the mistrust which cannot but arise in this fateful time. The same fire which enflames the Spaniard to the most bitter hatred flashes up in his friendship too, making him capable of every deed, every sacrifice, for his ally. My house is occupied by the enemy, but you are in safety, for I swear to you that whatever happens I will rather let myself be buried under the ruins of Valenzia than betray you. Believe me in this."

In the daytime a profound stillness as of the grave reigned around Edgar's room, but in the night he often thought he heard in the distance the echo of soft footfalls, the hollow murmur of many voices together, the opening and shutting of doors, the clatter of weapons. Some subterranean action seemed to be going on during the hours of sleep. Edgar questioned the Franciscan, who only--and that rarely--quitted him for an instant or two, tending him with the most unwearied care. But the Franciscan was of opinion that as soon as Edgar was well he would hear from Don Rafaele what it was that was going on. And this was so. For when Edgar was well enough to leave his bed, Don Rafaele came one night with a lighted torch and begged Edgar to dress and follow him with Father Eusebio, which was the name of the Franciscan, his doctor and nurse.

Don Rafaele led him through a long and rather narrow passage till they came to a closed door, which was opened on Don Rafaele's knocking.

How amazed was Edgar to find himself in a spacious vaulted chamber brilliantly lighted, in which there was a numerous assemblage of persons for the most part of wild, dirty, sullen appearance. In the middle stood a man who, though dressed like the commonest peasant, with wild hair and all the marks of a homeless, nomadic life, had in all his bearing something of the dauntless and the awe-aspiring. The features of his face were noble, and from his eyes flashed a warlike fire which bespoke the hero. To him Don Rafaele conducted his friend, announcing him as the brave young German whom he had rescued from the enemy, and who was prepared to take part in the grand contest for the freedom of Spain. Then Don Rafaele, turning to Edgar, said, "You are here in the heart of Valenzia, which is besieged by our enemies--the hearth on which burns for ever that fire whose unquenchable flame, ever blazing up with renewed vigour, is destined to destroy our accursed foe when the moment comes when, misled by his fallacious successes, he shall surpass himself in defiant arrogance. You are here in the subterranean vaults of the Franciscan Monastery. Along a hundred bye-paths unknown to betrayers the chiefs of the brave make their way to this spot, and hence, as from a focus, they dart in all directions rays which carry death and destruction to foreigners. Don Edgar, we look upon you as one of ourselves. Take your part in the glory of our undertakings."

Empecinado (for the man dressed as a peasant was none other than the renowned Guerilla chieftain)--Empecinado, whose fearless daring formed the theme of many a popular tale amounting to the miraculous--who set at defiance all the efforts of the enemy, like some incarnation of the spirit of vengeance, who when he had vanished without a trace would suddenly burst forth with redoubled force--who at the very moment when the enemy announced the utter annihilation of his bands would suddenly appear at the very gates of Madrid, placing the Pretender's life in danger--this Empecinado took Edgar by the hand, addressing him in enthusiastic words.

At this point in the proceedings a young man was brought in bound. His face, of deathly pallor, wore all the signs of hopeless despair; he was trembling, and appeared to find it difficult to stand upright when placed in the presence of Empecinado. The latter pierced him through and through with his glance of fire, and at length spoke to him, in a tone of the most appalling calmness. "Antonio," he said, "you are in league with the enemy. You have several times had interviews with Souchet, at unusual hours. You endeavoured to hand over, by treachery, our Place d'Armes at Cuença."--"It is so," answered Antonio, with a terrible sigh, not raising his bowed-down head. "Is it possible," cried Empecinado, breaking out into the wildest anger, "is it possible that you are a Spaniard--that the blood of your ancestors runs in your veins? Was not your mother Virtue personified? Would not the slightest suspicion that she was capable of betraying the honour of her house be an atrocious outrage? But for this I should believe you to be a bastard sprung from the most despicable race on earth. You have merited death. Prepare yourself to die."

Antonio threw himself at Empecinado's feet in anguish and despair, crying, "Uncle! uncle! do you not know that all the furies of hell are rending my breast. There are times--often--when the subtlety of Satan can bring anything to pass. Yes, uncle, I am a Spaniard. Let me prove it. Be merciful. Grant that I may blot out the disgrace which the most abominable arts of hell have brought upon me--that I may appear to you and to the Brethren purified from my offence. You understand me, uncle? You know the reason of my so imploring you!"

Empecinado seemed somewhat moved by the young man's entreaties. He raised him, and said gently, "Your repentance is sincere. You are right in saying that the cunning of Satan is able to accomplish much. I know the reason of your entreaty. I pardon you. Son of my dear sister, come to my heart!" Empecinado with his own hands untied his bonds, embraced him, and at once handed to him the dagger from his own girdle. "My thanks," the young man cried. He kissed Empecinado's hands, bedewing them with his tears, then he raised his eyes to heaven in prayer, and drove the dagger deep into his heart, falling dead without a sound.

This occurrence so shook the invalid Edgar that he nearly fainted. Father Eusebio took him back to his chamber.

Some weeks afterwards Don Rafaele Marchez considered that it was safe for him to liberate his friend from the prison in which he could not recover his health. He took him, in the night, up to a room which had windows looking out upon an unfrequented street, and warned him not to cross the threshold--at all events in the daytime, by reason that the French were quartered in the house.

Edgar could not explain to himself the irresistible desire which one day seized him to go out into the corridor. At the very instant that he did so the door of the room opposite opened, and a French officer came out meeting him.

"Why how came _you_ here, friend Edgar!" cried the Frenchman. "Welcome a thousand times!" Edgar had at once recognized him as Colonel la Combe of the Imperial Guard. Chance had brought this Colonel, just at the time of Germany's terrible degradation, to his uncle's house, where he himself was living, having had to abandon his military career. La Combe came from the south of France. Through the tenderness (by no means a common characteristic of his nation) with which he dealt with those who were so bitterly tried, he succeeded in overcoming the deep dislike--nay, the irreconcilable hatred, which was so firmly rooted in Edgar's soul against the arrogant foe, and finally, by virtue of certain traits of character, which placed beyond all doubt the true nobility of la Combe's nature, in gaming his friendship.

"Edgar," cried the Colonel, "what has brought _you_ to Valenzia?"

It may be imagined how sorely the question embarrassed Edgar. He could make no reply. The Colonel gazed at him gravely, and said in a serious tone. "Ah, I understand. You have given the rein to your animosity--you have drawn your sword for the imagined freedom of a nation of madmen, and I cannot blame you for it. I should be forming a very poor opinion of your friendship if I could suppose you capable of imagining that I could betray you. No, my friend; now that I have found you, you are in absolute safety for the first time. From this moment you shall be nobody but the commercial traveller of a German house of business in Marseilles, an old acquaintance of mine. So no more about that." Much as it distressed Edgar, la Combe did not rest until he quitted his hermitage, and shared with him the better quarters provided for him by Don Rafaele.

Edgar hastened to acquaint the suspicious Spaniard with all the circumstances of the case, and his previous relations with la Combe. Don Rafaele restricted himself to the answer, delivered in a grave and dry manner--

"Really; that is a very curious chance indeed!"

The Colonel sympathized keenly with Edgar's position. At the same time he could not divest himself of the characteristic temper of his nation, which sees in liveliness of movement, and the eager pursuit of pleasure, the best means of healing a wounded heart. Thus it happened that the Colonel walked arm in arm with the Marseilles commercial traveller in the Alameda, and drew him into the wild amusements of his light-hearted comrades.

Edgar noticed, clearly enough, that many strange forms dogged him about, watching him with suspicious looks; and it went deeply to his heart when, one day on entering a Posada with the Colonel, he heard distinctly behind him a whisper of "Acqui esta el traïdor!" ("That is the traitor.")

Don Rafaele grew daily more cold and monosyllabic towards Edgar, and at last he saw him no more, and was given to understand by him that, instead of taking his meals with him, he should take them with Colonel la Combe.

One day, when duty had called the Colonel elsewhere, and Edgar was alone, there came a gentle knock at his door, and Father Eusebio entered. He made enquiry after Edgar's welfare, and talked on all kinds of indifferent subjects, but presently came to a pause, and after looking fixedly into Edgar's eyes, cried with much emotion--

"No, Don Edgar, _you_ are not a traitor. It is in human nature that, in that waking dream which constitutes the delirium of fever--when the forces of life are in bitter combat with man's earthly envelope, and the strong tension of the fibres cannot hem in the thoughts and fancies which strive for utterance--it is, I say, in human nature that a man can then no longer help revealing phases of his being which are secret at other times. How often have I, Don Edgar, watched by your pillow during long nights? How often have you, all unknowing, allowed me to read the very depths of your soul? No, Don Edgar, it is impossible that you can be a traitor. But have a care of yourself--have a care of yourself!"

Edgar implored Eusebio to tell him clearly what he was suspected of, and what danger was threatening him.

"I will not conceal from you," said Eusebio, "that your intimacy with Colonel la Combe and his companions has caused suspicion to rest upon you--that fears are entertained that you might, from no evil intention, but out of mere lightheartedness, on some occasion when you may have taken more of our strong Spanish wines than was advisable, perhaps divulge some of the secrets of this house, into which Don Rafaele has initiated you. There is no doubt that you are in a certain amount of danger."

"But," continued Eusebio, after having maintained a thoughtful silence, with downcast eyes, for a time, "there _is_ one way of escaping all risk. You have only to throw yourself into the arms of the Frenchmen. They will get you out of Valenzia."

"What are you talking about?" Edgar burst out. "Sooner death without reproach, than escape coupled with miserable disgrace."

"Don Edgar," cried the monk with enthusiasm, "you _are_ no traitor!" He strained Edgar to his heart, and left the chamber with his eyes full of tears.

That night Edgar, happening to be alone (the Colonel chancing to be from home), heard steps approaching, and Don Rafaele's voice calling, "Open your door, Don Edgar." On opening it he saw Don Rafaele with a torch in his hand, and Father Eusebio behind him. Don Rafaele begged Edgar to accompany him, he having to attend an important meeting in the vault of the Franciscan monastery.

As they were passing along the subterranean passage, Don Rafaele being in advance with the lighted torch, Eusebio whispered softly in his ear,

"Oh, God, Don Edgar! you are going to your death! There is no escape possible for you now."

Edgar had ventured his life in many a fight with brave lightheartedness; but here all the anxiousness, the uncertainty of the manner of his assassination, could not but weigh heavily upon him, so that Eusebio had some difficulty in supporting him. And yet, as the way was still long, he managed to acquire a measure of self-control which enabled him not only to command himself, but to resolve upon the line of conduct which he should adopt in these circumstances. "When the door of the vault opened, Edgar saw the terrible Empecinado, with rage and fury flashing from his eyes. Behind him were standing several Guerillas and one or two Franciscan friars. Having now quite recovered his calm courage, Edgar walked firmly and fearlessly up to the Guerilla chief, and, addressing him gravely and quietly, said--

"It happens very fortunately that I am brought face to face with you to-day, Don Empecinado. I have been anxious to make a request to Don Rafaele, and now I have the opportunity of laying it before yourself. As Father Eusebio, my doctor and faithful guardian, will testify, I have now quite recovered. I am well and strong, and find it impossible to bear the tedious idleness of life among enemies whom I detest. I therefore beseech you, Don Empecinado, let me be taken and placed upon those secret paths known to you, that I may join your bands, and be engaged in enterprises for which my soul yearns."

"H'm!" said Empecinado, in a tone approaching mockery. "Do _you_ then hold with the crack-brained populace, who prefer death to doing homage to the Grand Nation? Have not your friends taught you better?"

"Don Empecinado," said Edgar, "you do not understand the German mode of looking at matters. It is not known to you that German courage, which burns on for ever inextinguishably, like a pure naphtha flame, and German faithfulness, firm as the primeval rock, form the most impenetrable coat of mail, from which all the poisoned darts of treachery and wickedness fall back harmlessly. I beg you once more, Don Empecinado, to let me go out into the open country, that I may prove myself deserving of the good opinion which I believe myself to have already earned."

Empecinado looked at Edgar in amazement, whilst a low murmur circulated amongst the assemblage. Don Rafaele moved forward to speak to Empecinado, but he motioned him back, and going to Edgar, took his hand and said with emotion--

"Another fate was in store for you. You had another destiny reserved for you to-day. However, Don Edgar, think of your own country. The enemies who have covered it with shame are here to-day before you. Remember that your German peoples, too, will raise their eyes to the Phoenix which will soar, with shining plumage, from the flames which are kindling here, and their despair give place to warm longing, the parent of dauntless courage, of battle to the very death!"

"I thought of all this," said Edgar, "before I left my own country, to shed my blood for your freedom. All my being dissolved itself into lust for vengeance, when Don Baldassare di Luna lay dying in my arms."

"If you are serious in this," cried Empecinado, as one suddenly breaking into fury, "you must set forth this very night, this very moment. You must not enter Don Rafaele's house again." Edgar declared that this was precisely what he desired, and was immediately conducted away by a man named Isidor Mirr (who afterwards became a guerilla chief), and Father Eusebio.

As they went the good Eusebio could not sufficiently express his delight at Edgar's escape.

"Heaven!" he said, "seeing your goodness put courage into your heart--a divine miracle, in my belief."

It was much closer to Valenzia than he expected, or than the enemy probably were aware, that Edgar met the first troop of Guerillas, and to it he attached himself.

I pass over in silence Edgar's warlike adventures, which often might sound as if taken from some book of knightly fables, and I come to the time when he unexpectedly encountered Don Rafaele Marchez among the Guerillas.

"You really had great injustice done to you, Don Edgar," said Don Rafaele. Edgar turned his back upon him.

When morning broke, Don Rafaele got into a state of anxiety which grew every instant till it attained a pitch of the most intense anguish. He ran up and down, sighed, clasped his hands, raised them to heaven, and prayed.

"What is the matter with the old fellow?" Edgar enquired.

"He has managed," said Isidor Mirr, "to get safe out of Valenzia himself, and to save the best of his belongings, and get them loaded up upon mules. He has been expecting them all night, and has every reason to anticipate evil."

Edgar marvelled at Don Rafaele's avarice, which seemed to render him oblivious of everything besides. It was midnight; the moon was shining brightly among the hills; when musketry fire was heard from the ravine beneath, and presently some rather seriously wounded Guerillas came limping up, reporting that the troop which was escorting Don Rafaele's mules had been unexpectedly attacked by some French Chasseurs, that nearly all their comrades had fallen, and the mules been captured by the enemy.

"Great heavens, my child--my poor, unfortunate child," Don Rafaele cried, and sank to the ground.

"What is the matter here?" cried Edgar loudly. "Come on, come on, brethren, down into the glen, to avenge our comrades, and snatch the booty from the teeth of these pigs."

"The good German is right," cried Isidor Mirr. "The good German is right," re-echoed all around, and away they rushed down into the ravine like a bursting thunderstorm.

There were only a few Guerillas left, and they were fighting with the courage of despair. With a cry of "Valenzia," Edgar rushed into the thickest mass of the enemy, and with the death-announcing roar of thirsting tigers the Guerillas dashed after him, planted their daggers in the breasts of the foemen, and felled them with the butts of their muskets. Well-directed bullets hit them in their headlong flight. These were the Valenzia men who had overtaken General Moncey's Cuirassiers in their march, dashed upon their flank, cut them down before they gathered how they were situated, and retired into their lurking-places masters of the arms and horses.

All this was over and done when Edgar heard a piercing scream from the densest part of the thicket. He made haste to the spot, and found a little man struggling with a Frenchman, and holding the bridle of the mule he was in charge of in his teeth. Just as Edgar came on the scene the Frenchman struck down the little man with a dagger, which he seemed to have taken from him, and was trying to drive the mule further into the thicket. Edgar gave a loud shout; the Frenchman fired at him, missed him, and Edgar ran him through with his bayonet. The little fellow was whimpering. Edgar raised him up, undid with some difficulty the bridle, which he had been convulsively biting, and noticed for the first time as he was helping him on to the mule that there was a shrouded form upon it already clinging to the creature's neck with its arms, and softly lamenting. Behind this girl, for such, judging by her voice, was the shrouded form, Edgar deposited the little wounded man, took the mule by the bridle, and thus made his way back to the little Place d'Armes, where, as no more of the enemy was visible, Isidor Mirr and his men had again taken up their positions.

The little man, who had fainted from loss of blood, though his wounds did not seem to be dangerous, and the girl, were lifted from the mule. At this moment Don Rafaele in a state of the most wild excitement darted forward with cries of "My child, my sweet child!" and was in the act to clasp the young creature, who did not seem to be more than about eight or ten in years, in his arms, when, suddenly seeing the bright torchlight shining on Edgar's face, he threw himself at his feet, crying, "Oh Don Edgar, Don Edgar! this knee has never bent to mortal man till now; but you are no mortal--you are an angel of light sent to save me from deadly anxiety and inconsolable despair! Oh, Don Edgar, fiendish mistrust was deeply rooted in my bosom, ever brooding upon evil. It was an undertaking deserving the bitterest execration to plan the destruction of one such as you with your true heart all honour and valour---to devote you to a shameful death. Strike me down, Don Edgar--execute a bloody vengeance upon me, vile wretch that I am! Never can you forgive what I have done."

Edgar, fully conscious that he had done nothing more than his duty and honour demanded of him, was pained by Don Rafaele's behaviour, and tried by all means to calm and silence him, at length with difficulty succeeding.

Don Rafaele said Colonel la Combe had been greatly distressed at Edgar's disappearance, and suspecting foul play, he had been on the point of ransacking the house and having him, Don Rafaele, arrested. This was why it had been necessary for him to escape, and it had been entirely owing to the Franciscan's help that he had been able to bring away his daughter, his servant, and many things which he required. Meanwhile the wounded servant and Don Rafaele's daughter had been taken on some distance in advance, whilst Don Rafaele, too old to share in the exploits of the Guerillas, was to follow them. At his sorrowful parting with Edgar he gave him a certain talisman, which brought him deliverance in many a serious danger.

Here Euchar ended his story, which had been listened to by the company with the keenest interest.

The Poet, who had got over his coughing fit and returned to the room, expressed the opinion that in Edgar's Spanish adventures there was fine material for a tragedy, all that he thought wanting being a due spice of love-making and an effective _finale_, such as a striking case of insanity, a good apoplexy, or something of the kind.

"Oh, yes, love," said a young lady blushing at her own temerity. "The only thing your delightful story wanted was some charmingly interesting love affair!"

"Dear Lady," said Euchar laughing, "I was not telling you the story of a novel, but the adventures of my friend Edgar. His life amongst the wild Spanish mountains was unfortunately poor in experiences of that kind."

"I have a strong belief," said Victorine in a low tone, "that I know this same Edgar, who has remained in poverty, because he has despised the most precious of gifts."

But no one's enthusiasm equalled that of Ludwig, who cried out most excitedly, "I know that mysterious Profecia del Pirineo by the glorious Don Juan Baptista de Arriaza. Oh, it fired my very veins! I wanted to be off to Spain to fight for that glorious cause--had it only been comprehended in the system of the mutual interdependence of things. I can quite put myself in Edgar's place. How I should have spoken to that terrible Empecinado in that awful situation in the Franciscan monastery!" And he began a harangue, which was so pathetic that everybody was astonished, and could not sufficiently marvel at his brave and heroic resolution.

"But it was not a part of the mutual interdependence of things," said the lady of the house, "although, perhaps, it does form a part of that interdependence--or, at all events, fits into it--that, as it happens, I have provided an entertainment for my visitors which forms a suitable pendant to Euchar's story."

The doors opened, and Emanuela came in followed by the stunted little Biagio Cubas with his guitar in his hands, making all manner of quaint obeisances and salutations. But Emanuela, with that indescribable charm of manner which had so fascinated Euchar and Ludwig in the Park, came into the circle curtseying, and said in a gentle voice that she was going to exhibit a little piece of skilfulness, which would not have much to recommend it except its being a little out of the common.

During the short time which had elapsed since our two friends had seen the girl she seemed to have grown taller, more beautiful, and more developed in figure--moreover, she was admirably, almost expensively dressed. "Now," Ludwig whispered into his friend's ear, as Cubas with quaint and comical features was getting things ready for the egg-fandago, "now is your chance to get back your ring."

"My dear goose," said Euchar, "don't you see it is on my finger? I found I had taken it off along with my glove; I discovered that on the same evening when I thought I had lost it."

Emanuela's dancing took everybody by storm, no one having ever seen such a thing before. Euchar kept his gaze fixed upon her earnestly. Ludwig broke out into exclamations of the utmost rapture. Victorine, close to whom he was sitting, whispered to him, "Hypocrite! You dare to pretend to speak of love to me while you are devoted to this brazen little wretch of a Spanish egg-dancer! Don't dare to look at her again, sir!"

Ludwig was considerably discomposed on the whole by Victorine's passion for him, with its tendency to flame out into jealousy without any rational cause. He said to himself, "I really am one of the luckiest fellows in the world; but all the same, this sort of thing rather bores a man."

When she had ended her dance Emanuela took the guitar and began singing Spanish ballads of cheerful, happy character. Ludwig begged her to sing that splendid thing which had so greatly delighted Euchar. She at once began--

"Laurel immortal al gran Palafox," etc.

Her enthusiastic delivery of these lines waxed in fervour as she went on, her voice swelled into greater power, the chords of the instrument clanged louder and louder. When she came to the Strophe, which speaks of the liberation of the Fatherland, she fixed her beaming eyes on Euchar, a river of tears rushed down her cheeks, and she fell on her knees. The hostess hurried to her, raised her up, and said, "No more, no more, sweet darling child," and, taking her to a sofa, kissed her on the brow and stroked her cheeks.

"She's out of her mind," Victorine whispered excitedly to Ludwig. "You can't be in love with a mad creature! No, no. Tell me at once--on the spot--that you can't possibly be in love with a maniac!"

"Good gracious, no! Of course not," Ludwig cried, considerably alarmed. He found the greatest possible difficulty in properly adapting himself to the excessively passionate manifestation which Victorine's affection had taken to displaying.

While the hostess was refreshing Emanuela with sweet wine and biscuits the valiant little guitarist, Biagio Cubas, who had sunk down in a corner and was sobbing profusely, was served with a glass of genuine Xeres, which he drained to the last drop with a gladsome "Donna, viva hasta mil annos."

It may readily be supposed that the ladies attacked Emanuela with a string of enquiries as to her country, circumstances, and so forth. The hostess felt the painfulness of her position too keenly not to so contrive that the firmly-closed circle should disperse itself into several subsidiary eddies, in which every one, the piquet players included, soon began to revolve. The consistorial president considered the little Spanish girl a delightful, natty little creature; the only thing was that somehow her dancing got into his own legs and made his head feel as giddy as if he were waltzing with the devil in person. The singing struck him as something quite out of the common; it delighted him immensely.

Count Walther Puck was of quite a different opinion. Of her singing he thought nothing at all; there was no such thing as a trillo in it all. But he praised her dancing most warmly, and thought it quite delicious. He said that his opinion on the subject was of some value, seeing that at one time he had been as good a performer as the most celebrated Maîtres de ballet.

"Will you believe me, brother Consistorial-President," he said, "when I tell you that in my youthful days, when I was a perfect model specimen of nimbleness and vigour, I used to be able to spring the fiocco and knock down a tambourine hung up nine feet above the tip of my nose with my toe! And as for this egg-fandago, why I have often smashed more eggs in performing that dance than seven hens would lay in four-and-twenty hours."

"Bless my soul," said the Consistorial-President, "that was doing the thing in a most stupendous style!"

"Yes," said the Count. "And then I must tell you my good old Cochenille plays the flageolet really very nicely indeed. And now and then I get him to play for me in the dressing-room; and then I really give myself full swing in the dancing line--of course, only there quite in private. You see what I mean?"

"Of course, of course," answered the Consistorial-President, "I quite understand."

Meanwhile Emanuela and her companion had disappeared.

As the company were about dispersing the hostess said, "Friend Euchar, I feel certain that you know a great deal more than you have told us about your friend Edgar, We should be deeply interested to hear a great deal more. "What you have told us was only a fragment of it, though it has so excited and interested us that none of us will sleep a wink to night. I can't accord you longer time than till to-morrow evening for satisfying our curiosity. "We must hear more of Don Rafaele, and Empecinado, and the Guerillas. And if it is possible that Edgar can get into a love affair, please don't deprive us of the satisfaction of that."

"That would be delightful!" sounded from all sides; and Euchar had to promise that he would be present with the matter necessary for the completing of his story.

As they were going home Ludwig could not say enough on the subject of Victorine's passion for him, bordering, as it seemed to do, on insanity. "All the same," he said, "that jealousy of hers has had the effect of enabling me to read my own heart clearly. And I have read there that my love for Emanuela is a thing unutterable. I am going to find her out, declare my passionate adoration for her--and clasp her to my heart."

"Exactly, my dear child," said Euchar imperturbably. "That is, of course, the proper thing for you to do."

On the next evening when the company were assembled again _chez Madame la Présidente_, she told them with much regret that Baron Euchar had written to say that he was unexpectedly obliged to start immediately on a journey, and must postpone the continuation of his story till he came back.

EUCHAR'S RETURN. SCENES IN A TRULY HAPPY MÉNAGE. CONCLUSION OF THE
STORY.

Two years had past away when one morning a handsome carriage well loaded with baggage drew up at the door of the Golden Angel (principal hotel in W----), and out of it got a young gentleman, a lady very closely shrouded in wraps, and an old man. Ludwig happened to be passing at the time, and naturally he had a look at the arrivals through his eye-glass. The young gentleman happened to turn round, and he immediately embraced Ludwig, crying out, "My dear old fellow!"

The latter was not a little astonished to see his old friend Euchar, for it was he who had got out of the carriage. "My dear fellow," he said, "who is that terribly muffled-up lady?--and the old gentleman? And, bless my soul, here comes a fourgon with baggage, and sitting on the back of it--good gracious, do my eyes deceive me?"

Euchar took Ludwig by the arm, led him a step or two across the street, and said, "You shall hear all about everything in good time, dear friend; but, to begin with, how have things been going with you? You are terribly pale--the fire of your eyes has gone out. To tell you the honest truth, you look about ten years older than when I saw you last. Have you been having a bad illness or some serious trouble?"

"Oh, dear no!" answered Ludwig. "Quite the contrary. I believe I am the very happiest fellow under the sun, for I am living a life of utterly ideal, Utopian love and bliss. The heavenly Victorine gave me that exquisite, tender hand of hers--bestowed it, my dear fellow, upon unworthy me rather more than a year ago! That pretty house which you see there with its windows shining in the sun is my home, and you must come there with me this moment and see that earthly paradise of mine. How delighted my dear wife will be to see you again! Let us give her a surprise."

Euchar begged for a few minutes time just to change his dress, and promised to come then at once and see with his own eyes how all things had worked together for Ludwig's happiness.

Ludwig came to meet his friend at the bottom of the stair, and begged him to make as little noise as possible in coming up, explaining that Victorine often suffered terribly from nervous headaches, and had a bad one just then, which rendered her nervous system so sensitive that she could hear the very softest footfall in any part of the house, although her own rooms were in the most distant part of it. Consequently they two now crept as softly as they could up the stairs, which were thickly carpeted, into Ludwig's own room. After the heartiest outpourings of gladness at seeing his old companion again, Ludwig rang the bell, but immediately cried out, "Oh, Lord, what have I done, wretch that I am!" putting both his hands before his face. And it was not long before a snappish creature of a lady's maid came in screeching out to Ludwig in a horrible, vulgar tone of voice, "Herr Baron, for heaven's sake what are you doing? You'll kill my lady. She's in spasms now."

"Good gracious! my good Nettie," said Ludwig in a lamentable voice, "I really forgot all about it. I was so happy. Here is the greatest friend I have in the world come to see me. We haven't met for years. He's an old intimate friend of your mistress, too. Go and beg her--implore her--to let me bring him to her." Ludwig put money into her hand, and she made her exit with a vixenish "I'll see what I can do."

Euchar, finding himself in presence of a situation which is but too common in life, and is consequently served up to us _ad nauseam_ in comedies and novels, had his own particular ideas as to his friend's domestic happiness. He felt with Ludwig all the painfulness of the position, and began to talk about indifferent subjects. But Ludwig would not give in to this, saying that what had been happening to him since they had been apart had been too remarkable and interesting that he should delay for a moment to communicate it to Euchar.

"Of course," he began, "you remember that evening when we were all at Madame Veh's and you told the Story of your friend Edgar's adventures. And, of course, you remember how Victorine flamed up into jealousy and showed her heart, which was blazing with passion, without disguise. Idiot that I was--I fully admit to you that I was an idiot--I fell desperately in love with that little Spanish dancing girl, and thought that I could read in her eyes that my love was not without some hope. Perhaps you noticed that at the finish of her fandango, whim she made the eggs into a pyramid the apex of that pyramid was directed towards me. I was sitting just in the centre of the circle behind Madame Veh's chair. Now could she have expressed more clearly how deep her interest in me was? I wanted to find the dear little creature out the next morning, but it was not a part of the mutual interdependence of things that I should succeed in that. I had almost forgotten all about her when chance----"

"The mutual interdependence of things, you mean," interrupted Euchar.