The Spanish Cavalier Part 19

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

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

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

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

The delicacy and tenderness of Inez were by no means shared by Teresa.

It was very unwillingly indeed that, in obedience to her young lady's orders, the old servant poured out for Antonia the very last gla.s.sful of wine from the very last bottle left in the once well-filled cellars. Teresa, her visage looking more grim and ill-tempered than usual, carried the beverage which she grudged to the daughter of Don Lopez de Rivadeo.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

VENGEANCE.

Antonia might well be excused for the excess of her terror. If in one European country more than another an infuriated mob is to be dreaded, that country, perhaps, is Spain. A people accustomed to find delight in seeing bulls tortured, horses gored to death, and men imperilled and often wounded or slain, are not likely, when their pa.s.sions are roused, to be moved to pity, or to feel horror at deeds of blood.

Religion, degraded into superst.i.tion or utterly cast aside, has little power to control. The commandment, "_Thou shalt not kill_," has been broken so often, that its breach has almost ceased to be regarded as a crime. The stoutest heart might have quailed at the sound of the savage roar of voices, and that of thundering blows on the ornamental grating which alone divided the mob from their prey.

A little group stood together in the patio, whose marble pavement was likely so soon to be stained with the blood of at least one victim.

Lucius Lepine, with the generous spirit which makes the Englishman "strike as soon for a trampled foe as he would for a soul-dear friend," stood by the side of Aguilera, to protect his endangered guest. The Briton grasped his loaded pistol, the Spaniard was quite unarmed. A little behind them appeared Lopez de Rivadeo, a haggard, desperate man, clutching his dagger and clinching his teeth, as he watched the grating, which he every moment expected to give way under the clanging blows which were showered upon it. Near the governor stood Peter Pa.s.smore, flushed and snorting with excitement, and heartily wis.h.i.+ng himself out of a country where an honest man could not take a morning drive without the risk of being baited like a wild beast. Diego completed the group; the chulo had attached himself to Alcala, and was resolved to stand by the cavalier to the last. Once the pale face of Inez had appeared at a door which led to the interior part of the dwelling, but she had retired at the urgent desire of her brother. "This is no place for ladies!" cried he.

"That bit of wrought iron will not hold out long under such battering," cried Pa.s.smore, addressing himself to Lopez; "why do you not hide yourself in some inner apartment?"

"Because I would rather make my last stand here, under the open sky, than be killed like a rat in a hole," hoa.r.s.ely muttered the desperate man.

Cr--cr--cr--as.h.!.+ down goes the grating, and over it rush the human wolves towards their victim.

"Back, back, ye men of Seville!" exclaimed Alcala, coming forward to meet the mob with that calm dignity which marked one born to command.

"How dare ye thus force your way into the dwelling of a cavalier of Andalusia?" Alcala's stern eyes were fixed on the leader of the rioters, in whom he recognized one of the robbers with whom he had pa.s.sed the previous night in prison. The bandit was taken aback by the unexpected meeting with that strange fellow-prisoner whom he had almost deemed a prophet inspired by Heaven.

"We seek not to harm you or yours, senor, but that wretch--"

"Is my guest, and as such shall be protected with my life!" cried Alcala. "What, my brave countrymen! will ye celebrate the birthday of your liberty with deeds of violence which would disgrace the heathen?

When the eyes of Europe are upon them, will Spaniards show themselves unworthy of their freedom? I have heard in your streets the shout of 'Viva la Const.i.tucion!' I hailed it as a sign that my countrymen could distinguish liberty from license, and that in Spain at least revolution meant not robbery and murder!"

Alcala had appealed to the self-respect of his hearers--that quality which appears to be inherent in Spaniards, and which, as history proves, can act as a curb even on the rage of their mobs. No one of the intruders rushed violently forward, although the only barrier between them and their prey was the firm will and dauntless courage of one unarmed individual. But a haggard, wild-looking man came a little in front of the rest, to act as the spokesman of all. Fierceness, almost resembling that of insanity, flashed from his sunken eyes, as, glaring on Rivadeo, the Spaniard brandished aloft his huge knife, and then addressed himself to Alcala.

"We must have justice, we must have revenge on a villain who for years has trampled the people under foot as the mire in the streets! Did ye know half his crimes, ye would not protect him. Look at me, senor!" A terrible tale of suffering was written on the speaker's haggard face and almost skeleton frame. "You have been for one night in that den of misery into which robbery, under the mask of justice, thrusts its victims; I have been there for _seven years_! And my crime was that I could not bribe yonder tyrant to give me back my birthright of freedom! _Seven years!_" repeated the man with energy, "rotting in a dungeon worse than the lair of a beast, whilst my wife and children were starving outside!"

A deep murmur of indignation rose from the listening crowd. The man went on with increasing fierceness of tone and gesture.

"Seven years! and every day of those years I breathed a deeper vow of vengeance. I am but one of many who have made that vow--"

"Yes, yes!" howled forth many threatening voices.

"And shall we not keep it?" exclaimed the deeply-wronged man.

"Yes, yes!" was more loudly repeated. "The tyrant is before us, shall we not strike! Vengeance is within reach, shall we not grasp it!"

"Hold, men of Seville!" exclaimed Alcala; "hear me but for a moment.

There are those amongst you who listened last night in a dungeon to an offer of mercy from Heaven. To whom was that offer made? To all, from the criminal in ermine to the thief on the cross. By whom was that offer made? By Him who had power to crush His enemies--to annihilate or hurl them down into fire that shall never be quenched.

Transgressors were before Him; did He strike? Vengeance was within His reach; did He grasp it? Did not the Deity take man's nature, that as Man He might die, not for His friends alone, but for His foes? Did He not purchase, at the price of His own life's blood, the right to extend free forgiveness even to the guiltiest of all?"

Again words that glowed with the fervour that warmed the heart of the speaker fell with strange power on men to whom pure and simple gospel truth was as a new revelation. Alcala felt that he was making some impression on his wild audience, and thus went on with his appeal to their n.o.bler feelings:--

"Let me not speak to you in my own words, but in the words of the Lord of Life, who for our sakes underwent agony, shame, and death! It is He who says, even to the most deeply injured, the most cruelly oppressed amongst us all, '_Forgive, as ye have been forgiven_.' The lips of Him who on the cross breathed a prayer for His own murderers, is now saying to our souls, '_Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy_.' Is there one man here who needs not that mercy--is there one here who without that mercy dare stand before the tribunal of G.o.d?"

There was a deep silence amongst the throng. After a brief pause, Alcala resumed speaking, but in a different tone.

"Return, my brave friends, to your homes, thankful that you have hands unstained with blood, and consciences not burdened by murder. We Spaniards have a n.o.bler and more arduous task before us than that of slaying a defenceless foe. Our glorious land has long groaned under that worst form of bondage--the bondage which fetters the soul. We have been robbed of our n.o.blest heritage--the heritage of the Word of Truth. Let us throw off our chains, and show ourselves men! The Moor was driven from our Andalusia by the prowess of our brave sires; let ours be a greater victory, a more glorious conquest than theirs. Let Spain rise from the dust of ages to be the champion of freedom and faith. Let us not rest till one of the fairest lands upon which the light of heaven s.h.i.+nes becomes an example to the nations around her, and a blessing to all the world!"

"_Viva Aguilera! viva la Spagna!_" exclaimed Lucius Lepine, with an enthusiasm which was contagious. The mob caught up the words, and re-echoed the shout; the patio resounded with "_Viva la Spagna! viva Aguilera!_"--Diego's voice heard above all. Alcala was too much exhausted to speak more to the crowd, but he smiled and bowed his thanks; and the people, obeying his gesture, slowly and without confusion defiled again through the arched pa.s.sage, and made their way back into the street.

"I never saw anything to equal that!" exclaimed the astonished Pa.s.smore, when he saw the last individual of the rabble disappear from the court. "Iron at white heat to be cooled down by a few brave words!"

"To G.o.d be the glory!" said Alcala.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

A LAST FAREWELL.

The agony of suspense which had been suffered by the wretched Don Lopez whilst his life hung trembling in the balance was now shown by his vehement impatience to get out of Seville. The governor could hardly thank his preserver; he would taste no refreshment; he would not so much as sit down, so restless was he in his eager desire to escape. De Rivadeo was furious even at the brief delay which took place ere his daughter obeyed his reiterated call. Lopez would on no account stop to encounter the chance of a repet.i.tion of such an attack by the mob as that from which he had so narrowly escaped with life.

Mr. Pa.s.smore's carriage was still at the entrance, and the manufacturer consented, though with no good grace, to take the fugitives to the nearest town, where they would be likely to get another conveyance to carry them to some port. Lopez de Rivadeo must follow Queen Isabella into exile, as others, worthless as himself, already had done.

Diego, who liked adventure, and whose intelligence might further the governor's escape, volunteered to take his seat beside Mr. Pa.s.smore's coachman, who had been so much frightened by the events of the morning that he could hardly manage the reins.

Just as these little arrangements had been concluded, Donna Antonia re-entered the patio, leaning on the arm of Inez, and followed by Teresa. The governor's daughter now wore a veil and mantilla; these, to a Spanish lady, needful articles of dress, had been given to Antonia by Inez, notwithstanding the angry expostulations of the old duenna. Teresa was indignant to see her mistress robbed, as she called it, of what she so ill could spare.

"My only comfort," muttered Teresa, as she hobbled after the ladies, "is that the mantilla has been worn till the silk will hardly hold together, and that the veil has more of neat darning on it than of the original lace."

Alcala came forward to hand Donna Antonia to the carriage; oppressed as he was with weakness and languor, the cavalier of Andalusia would not suffer another to take his place in doing the honours of his house to his unfortunate guests. This was the first day on which the proud beauty of Seville had met Don Alcala de Aguilera since that on which he had rashly risked his life for her sake. If any touch of womanly feeling was in Antonia's selfish bosom, that feeling must have been stirred now into remorse as she beheld her father's preserver.