HOW DON Q. STOOD AT BAY, by K. and Hesketh Prichard

Winter was breaking. The plains were already gay with flowers, and even in the colder heights of the sierras warm hours at midday reminded Garth Lalor that time was passing; and still Don Q. continued to evade his hints of a desire to return to England. The affair of the death of General Don Basilio remained less of a mystery than Lalor had at first hoped and believed that it might remain. Don Q. was far too keen a man of business to allow the matter to sink into oblivion. He knew that the dealing out of justice in his own peculiar, high-handed manner to so powerful a Carlist conspirator would add brilliancy to his prestige, besides giving irrefrangible proof of the might of his arm.

Lalor, who, you will remember, accompanied the brigand on his eccentric tour of justice, had in consequence been forced to seek refuge once more in the mountains, although the ransom assessed upon him had been remitted by Don Q.

During the last couple of weeks Lalor had noticed that his host of the sierras was plunged in a mood of melancholy, shot and illuminated by flashes of cold rage. Don Q. was not a man to be questioned, and Lalor waited for enlightenment.

One morning as Lalor sat on the terrace sunning himself in the brilliant air of the sierras, Don Q. joined him. Chilly as usual, the Chief, wrapped in his cloak, his sombrero pulled low over his brows, sat for a few moments in silence; then he disengaged one meager hand and pointing downward at the men gathered in groups in the valley below, he told a story in his sibilant voice.

“One of these wolves, these mountain apes,” he began sourly, “has dared to play a little part in imitation of a man—of me, in short—with the grotesque result one would expect from such a travesty. As regards the animal himself, it matters not at all. But he has injured me in a degree so monstrous that his blood alone cannot wash out his crime!”

Lalor looked at the Chief, who had moved and was hanging over the edge of the terrace with the threatening poise of a hawk, scanning the figures beneath, who, manifestly conscious of the deadly gaze, lay motionless in varied and picturesque attitudes round the fires.

“One Pablo has captured and held to ransom a lady of wealthy though not noble family. It came to my knowledge as all events come, and I descended the mountains and caught the fellow red-handed,” the Chief went on. “I returned, bringing both with me. The señorita had been frightened, even maltreated! Psst!” Don Q. emitted a hiss of contempt and malevolence. “Then I considered what I should do.”

Lalor comprehended that last evening’s four good hours of bleak and scowling silence had been spent by the brigand in making up his mind how he might adequately punish the wrongdoer. The outcome of these terrible musings appeared to be a letter that Don Q. now unfolded before the young Englishman.

“What do you think of this, señor?” he asked, “I will read it to you, omitting the compliments of greeting with which you are familiar. I address myself to the Governor of the Prison of Castelleno.”

“What?” ejaculated Lalor, “not the man whose ears—”

Don Q. bowed in his courtly manner.

“Whose ears I regretted being obliged to add to my little museum up here in the mountains—the same, señor.” He began to read, “Don Q. has the honor to send herewith the person of Pablo Gomez, formerly of his band, who has committed the unpardonable indiscretion of holding to ransom on his own responsibility the Señorita Doña Manuela de Lucas. Don Q., as all who acquaint themselves with the great events of the day are aware, has never, during his long, memorable and blameless career, held to ransom a lady. Don Q. trusts that his excellency the Governor of the Prison of Castelleno will, as a man of honor, clear the name of Don Q. of the stigma cast upon it by the horrible action of the scoundrel, Pablo Gomez, and garrotte the fellow on the highest point of the prison roof in the sight of all the world.’ After that the usual greetings of farewell. Does it appear to you, señor, that I have made my meaning perfectly comprehensible?”

“Very much so,” replied Lalor.

The Chief clapped his hands and Robledo, his trusted servant, came running up the path to the cave. Giving orders to bring Pablo and the señorita into his presence, Don Q. resumed,

“You must understand, dear friend, that the rabble of the plains are but too glad to soil the record of a man so much better than themselves. I could naturally cause Pablo to be killed in many excellent ways. I could, for instance, blindfold him and request him to walk ten paces forward—the ninth step including a fall of four hundred feet. This little promenade, when explained beforehand to the person of whom there is question, causes a highly unpleasant quarter-of-an-hour, señor.”

Lalor assured the Chief he could well believe it.

“But in that case they who hate me in the plains would inevitably accuse me of departing from my rule of never causing annoyance to a lady. I have resolved to send Pablo to be dealt with by the law of Spain, so that the true story of the matter may reach my revilers.”

Lalor opened his lips to speak, but after hesitation forbore. The brigand was not one with whose counsels it was well to meddle uninvited. At the moment a group of men, haling with them a reluctant captive, appeared climbing the path. In front of them walked a handsome woman of, perhaps, twenty years of age.

He rose and with conspicuous elegance of movement, swept his hat to the ground. “Señorita, I kiss your feet.”

The girl grew whiter as she gazed at the bald-browed vulture aspect of Don Q. She turned to Lalor and, reading pity in his glance, she begged him in broken words to plead for her.

“There will be no need, señorita,” replied Lalor, in halting Spanish, “Señor Don Q. is your best friend.”

“I beg you, señorita, to accept my most humble apologies for the indignity with which this miscreant has treated you.” The Chief pointed to Pablo, whose face expressed hang-dog terror, “I have written to the Governor of the Prison of Castelleno to deal with him to the utmost severity of the law. While you, lady, shall be conducted with all care and tenderness to your family.”

“You are about to set me free?” cried the girl.

“Doubtless, you have heard many things of me, Doña Manuela,” replied Don Q. sadly. “Have those stories ever included one of cruelty or imprisonment imposed upon a woman?”

“No, no, señor. You are good, you deprive me of words!” she faltered. “How can I thank you?”

“Very easily, most beautiful flower. Be good enough to make it well known in the plains that, in whatever manner I may deal with men, my bearing toward ladies is above reproach.”

“I will tell them all you have done for me! You saved me!” by a slight gesture she made evident her horror of Pablo. “I thank you with all my heart, señor.”

Don Q. turned to Lalor.

“My friend,” he said softly, “you will go with this lady to the lower pass. May I beg the favor of you? You can reassure her as these rough ones never can.”

Lalor expressed his delight at the commission, and on his return a few hours later to the cave he found Don Q. in unusually good spirits.

“By this time the civil guards have charge of our good Pablo,” he remarked, “Robledo will see him enter the gates of the prison, and in a day or two will bring to us the news of the execution. Perhaps, dear friend, you think I have shown weakness in allowing that rascal to get off so cheaply, considering his crime in causing distress to the señorita, who is indeed as beautiful as rumor declared her to be. But what will you? I, of all persons, cannot afford to lose my hitherto unsullied name.

“A good name is like snow, the faintest stain has power to sully it!” The Chief shook his head with an air of profound conviction; then, changing his tone, “But the matter is now done with. Come, friend, light your pipe, and let us wander among the flowers of memory. The world has its wonderful histories, but few are more full of romance than that of our old Spain. It pleases me at times to reflect that countless generations have dwelt in those fat plains below us, but that until I came here, these higher gorges of the sierra have been desolate, and have seldom echoed to the voices of midget humanity.”

“You have never thought of retiring from the sierras—from your profession?” inquired Lalor.

Don Q., who had been huddled by the fire, sat up. The glancing flames played over him, and never had the contrast between his fragile body and fierce heart been so apparent.

“But, señor, you appear not to comprehend this matter!” he exclaimed, his thin voice taking on the sibilant sound of anger. “Your question is ill-considered. It proves that you have failed to understand the motives which led me to adopt my present profession. In business, perhaps, as in that of the wineseller or the dealer in vegetables, which has as its object the amassing of a competence, one hears of persons retiring. But have you ever heard of a poet, an author, an artist, retiring?”

Lalor hastened to acknowledge that he had not.

“The same rule applies to me,” pursued the Chief haughtily. “When I first came up into the sierras I was already rich. Now I am immensely so. But the excitements of my life and the greatness of my career are as dear to me as ever, and the idea of leaving them is intolerable!

“Also, would it suit with my dignity to sue for a pardon?” he resumed more quietly. “And, having got it, to become a mere politician? A man of my eminence cannot disappear. No, seññor, the feud between the law and myself will never be ended until I am dead. And when the names which today appear notable in the land, are forgotten, men will still speak of Don Quebrantahuesos. My fame and my doings have enriched the Spanish language!”

Lalor knew that the strange man who spoke thus, spoke the bare truth. Perhaps his intelligence had become warped by many years of seclusion, but without question the Chief meant all that he said.

“Señor, have you no fear of capture?” Lalor could not withhold the question.

“Ah, no, my dear friend, none,” the thin claw-like fingers were spread to the blaze, “none whatever. I shall die at my own time and in my own fashion.”

The young author sighed. He had grown almost attached to the strange, inhuman outlaw, whose nature, as he now knew, could he touched to such fine issues.

“Why do you sigh?” Don Q. asked in his courteous way.

“Pardon me,” exclaimed the young man impetuously, “but who of us can say that luck will forever be on his side? You are here alone. Those about you are wolves—you have called them so. And wolves will drink one another’s blood. Listen to me, England offers a safe retreat.”

The delicate yellow hand went up to deprecate further urging.

“I thank you, Señor Lalor, for your thoughts of me. I, too, will sigh when the day comes that I can with safety send you to the coast to take ship for your own land. As for me, have no fear. When I die, it will be here. And unborn men will fear to linger alone among the sierra, where the great Chief of the sequestradores lies asleep.”

* * * *

To follow the proper sequence of events one must pass down through the Boca de Jabili to the thicket of laurestinus bushes nestling in a romantic gorge among the lower slopes of the sierra. There Robledo left Pablo bound, while he hid himself on an overhanging ledge, where he lay at his ease in the sun and kept watch on events in the ravine below.

The pair of civil guards, whose duty it was to patrol that locality, presently rode into view, and, with much caution, for treachery is not unknown to the corps, approached the spot where a mysterious note had told them they would find the robber, Pablo Gomez. All turned out as the note foretold, and Robledo heard one of the men remark,

“The goatherds say Don Q. is the devil; but he does not lie to us—that is strange.”

The watcher on the ledge above shook his head dubiously. For his own part he believed that the Chief must be playing a very deep game indeed. In due time he came down from his ledge and, by taking leisurely short cuts, kept the civil guards and their prisoner in view to the moment when the gates of the prison closed behind them.

His orders were to await in the town until news of the execution of Pablo should be made public. This news was not long in coming. On the third day reports circulated that Pablo Gomez, the brigand of the sierra, had expiated his many crimes.

Robledo was free to return to the mountains, but one little half-hour must still be snatched to further his own affairs. Perhaps our readers may remember a certain woman with a fine ankle and lustrous eyes, whom Don Luis had once seen from a balcony and admired; also that those dark eyes were lit with lovelight for the dirty, brave, and picturesque Robledo. The thought of them tempted him to delay. It was nightfall when he strolled into a narrow street with his guitar and sang a serenade of passion and farewell under a barred window, until the moonbeams showed him the flashing eyes and teeth of his Isabelilla behind the bars.

At the moment, a sound of hurrying footsteps came down the street, and Robledo and his guitar were at once swallowed up in the darkness of a neighboring doorway.

The two men appeared striding swiftly along the line of shadow, but as they drew near Robledo’s hiding place, a shaft of moonlight through a break in the house-roofs caught the half-muffled profile of one of them. Robledo first started and crossed himself, then with a quick, monkey gesture he put out his hand and touched the cloak of this person as he passed.

This was no apparition, but Pablo Gomez, very much in the flesh.

Robledo comprehended that this meant some serious trouble was brewing against the whole band of the sequestradores in the sierra. He himself could not guess what it might be, but he would hasten back to Don Q., who knew everything, who could defeat every stratagem.

Robledo inserted one lean brown hand behind a bar and drew himself up to the window until the comely, powdered face and his own sun-browned one were close together, and a brief whispering ensued. Two minutes later he dropped down, wiped some powder from his lips, and slid away through the shadows. On the second day he was urging his mule at a speed it had never before attained, through the Boca de Jabili.

“Well, my child,” said Don Q., gently, when Robledo once more stood before him. “You have fulfilled my commands or you would not be here?”

“Yes, lord.”

“And the vile Pablo has been garrotted?”

“No, lord.”

“Corpse of a scullion! You have dared to disobey me!”

“No, lord, no! On the third day it was spoken on authority from the prison that Pablo was dead, and that his excellency the Governor had given fifty pesetas to pay for masses for his soul.”

“Go on.”

“I desired to see the dead body, and I went with the crowd to the prison, but none was admitted. So I waited, for it is not good for a poor man to bring news on hearsay to my lord.”

The Chief nodded impatiently.

“When dark fell I went to the house of my cousin, for I was doubtful,” Robledo went on with nervousness.

“With a guitar?” sneered the Chief venomously.

“It is true, lord.” The robber crossed himself, for Don Q.’s knowledge always seemed uncanny, “I carried my guitar in order to make those who met me believe that my service was to a lady’s eyes, not to my lord of the sierra.”

“And the name of the cousin is Isabelilla, is not that so?”

“Yes, lord.” Robledo was apprehensive; but the importance of his news gave him courage. “While I waited to enter her house, two men came down the street. One was the porter of the prison gate, and the other had the face of Pablo.”

A spasm of fury seemed to shake Don Q.

“Ah, infamy!” he whispered half to himself; then louder. “And what did my good Robledo think? That he had seen a ghost?”

“No, lord, for I spoke to my cousin at the window—no more. Isabelilla had heard—for her mother has washing from the prison of the laces and the linens of her excellency, Doña Catalina—that one said at the prison that Pablo had been spared, and another executed in his name. That is all!”

Don Q.’s peaked nose sank from sight in the breast of his folded cloak, and he sat brooding in his bird-like attitude for many minutes.

At length—“Robledo.”

“Yes, lord.”

“You will give this money, it is five hundred dollars, to thine Isabelilla.”

Robledo bowed and muttered his eager gratitude to the Chief for this gift.

“Also there is a message for Isabelilla.”

“Yes, lord.”

“Say to her that if she fails to procure the earliest news of all that passes in the prison, I will cut off the nose of her cousin Robledo.… Go!”

Even in the rewards of the fierce, vulture-like Chief, there was always the hint of a threat. It was not only characteristic of him, but justified by deep knowledge of the human material he dwelt with. Robledo departed into the valley, treading very softly.

Lalor, seeing that Don Q. pulled his hat over his brows and returned to brooding over the fire, left the Chief to himself. No doubt some treachery was intended, and Lalor hardly wondered at the fact when he recalled a certain story about the ears of the Governor of the Prison of Castelleno which had been told to him with many gestures of horror.

In the evening, however, Don Q. became positively gay, and, departing from his usual custom of never drinking any but the thinnest of country wine, broke a bottle or two with Lalor of a flavor seldom tasted by an English palate. He even got out his guitar and sang in his high, thin voice a forgotten drinking song.

While pouring out another glass of wine he asked abruptly:

“You have heard of the Governor of Castelleno? He is, in truth, a vain fellow, but I believed in his honor. I have been too generous. Never again, señor, will I trust in nobility of class compelling nobility of action.”

Lalor inquired what he supposed the authorities meant to do.

“They have given Pablo his life on the condition that he betrays me. That, of course, is clear. They have never been able to find the hidden way to this valley: Pablo Gomez is to tell them the secret and lead them here!” he laughed with sibilant mockery. “So the Governor dreams of my capture—dreams that Pablo will guide him to my unknown retreat? It is well! For Pablo will find no path to follow. And more, señor, I say to you, that before many days are over, the monks of Castelleno will have grown husky with singing masses for the soul of that very infamous gentleman and calumniator, Don Hugo, Governor of the Prison of Castelleno.”

* * * *

Days passed, and spies departed from the valley and found their way back again; ragged goatherds and charcoal-burners came cringing and crossing themselves into the presence of the Chief, who seemed to tear out the inmost soul of each with his questions and the glare of his malignant eyes. Lalor listened, marveling more and more at the intuition with which Don Q. pierced to the bottom of every man’s knowledge, and drew from him details of himself, his neighbors, and his surroundings, thus gathering a mass of minute information. He understood that such knowledge being translated meant—power that to the peasants seemed superhuman.

News from the plains grew more and more ominous. Stories floated up of cavalry and infantry arriving and encamping outside the town of Castelleno because the barracks were full. Then in the dusk of one starlit night half-a-dozen messengers followed upon one another’s heels with the news that a systematic movement had begun towards the sierra.

In fact, Don Hugo, the Governor of the Prison, had gained from Pablo Gomez a fairly clear knowledge of the topography of the Boca de Lobo, the valley in which Don Q. had always found safe retreat, baffling the expeditions sent out against him. It was approached by a tunnel-like passage, and, as far as the band knew, had no other outlet. The Governor boasted that the capture of the great brigand was now but a matter of time. He would be bottled up in his valley and secured by an overwhelming force. After this, the Governor promised to put him in a cage in the grand Plaza of Castelleno for the crowd to gaze at. Upon the third day he would be garrotted in public with much ceremonial to impress evil-doers.

All these sayings were faithfully carried to Don Q.

“Imagine this animal without honor to whom I sent Pablo!” he exclaimed to Lalor. “Truly I took an overhigh view of humanity! As to my garroting in public—” he laughed. “Come with me, Señor Lalor, and see how Don Q. begins to stand at bay.”

He went out and stood on the edge of the terrace and clapped his hands. The valley was unusually full, for all outlying parties of the band had been ordered to gather. Instantly from the fires and shelters the men hurried and collected in a group, looking up at the Chief.

“Place yourselves in your ranks, my children,” the sibilant voice cried softly, and the three score and odd picturesquely-clad figures fell into line. The Chief examined them slowly between his eyelids before he spoke again.

“My children, there are many soldiers and many of the civil guard coming from the plains against us. I am told that three hundred hope to stand where you now stand before three days pass.”

The men broke out into a tumultuous defiance of words and gesticulations. For a moment only, and then the yellow, meager hand again imposed silence.

“We are seventy. I shall not need so many to protect me. Every alternate man fall out of the ranks, and stand together in a new line.”

They did so. Don Q. looked them over in their turn.

“Thirty-four. That is well,” he said. “You will scatter, you will go down into the plains and lose yourselves in the towns. Go where you will; but, my children, remember, lead always honest lives, give none occasion to speak against you. And when I have destroyed the army of the Governor of the Prison of Castelleno, I will in due time send for you.”

The wild faces were painted with astonishment and awe. Who but Don Q. would prepare to resist a powerful force by half disbanding his own? The very act added to the mysterious reputation he already owned.

Next morning a similar scene was gone through. Again the Chief carefully examined the men, gave orders for every alternate one to fall out, exhorted them to lead honest lives, and dismissed them with the same formula.

By this time Lalor noticed that, with the exception of Robledo, the Chief had got rid of all the stanch and most reliable men of his band. It seemed strange that in a moment of such peril, he should retain the least loyal about his person. Yet so it was. He ventured presently to ask Don Q. a question on the matter.

“I have my little design,” replied the Chief, smiling with a cruel inflection of thin lips. “You perceive that I have already made an immense impression on my people—when they come to hear all, it will be yet deeper. As for these wolves, these jackals rather,” he pointed a scornful finger at the fellows remaining in the valley, “they are quite good enough for the purpose I intend them to serve.”

“What are we going to do then?”

“Señor,” said the Chief, turning his bald-browed, peaked face to the young man, “we are about to part. Perhaps the hour of my death draws near. Would you be sorry, tell me?”

Lalor caught the sad smile on the other’s lips.

“I believe I should,” he said.

“Then, señor, if I die yonder, you will grant me a favor?”

“Yes.”

“Today you go down into Castelleno to a little tavern where you will dwell in safety until Robledo brings you the last news of me. Listen, Señor Lalor, the favor that I would beg is that you will chronicle the manner of my death. You will tell the world how the greatest brigand of all ages turned at bay among his mountains, alone, as he had lived, save for sixteen disloyal men, against the flower of the chivalry of the South.

“I have further left you a large sum to engage an adequate illustrator. It would be a pity, señor, that so memorable a fight as that which is about to take place, should not be rendered full justice. I have had much pleasure in your society, my dear nephew,” Don Q. put out his bony hand to take Lalor’s, “and I recognize in you one whom the saints sent to a lonely man to record, perhaps, his last exploit—which might have been lost to history.”

Lalor went down the mountains, leaving Don Q. with a priest the Chief had caused to be fetched from the little chapel of San Pedro. For Don Q., in view of his possible death, desired to confess and to receive absolution.

The young Englishman took up his abode in a tavern on the outskirts of Castelleno, where he waited for nearly a week.

One afternoon a young woman touched him on the arm, and raising her fine eyes to his—

“You have heard of Isabelilla?” she said, laying an indicative finger on her own breast.

Lalor bowed and made a suitable reply.

She went on to say that the hospitality of the poor dwelling of her mother, who was a laundress, was open to him if he would follow her, for there was one come from the mountains to see the señor.

She moved off at once, and Lalor followed. At the house he found Robledo. The handsome brigand was very pale under his sunburn, and he crossed himself repeatedly.

During the meal, which was made up of an excellent stew, beans and fruit, Lalor asked no questions. After it, he lit a cigarette, and inquired how Don Q. fared.

Robledo shook his head.

“I will tell the señor the story.”

And he told it, backing his words with look and gesture, till Lalor felt as if he saw the scenes described.

Robledo told of the last look at the deserted valley of the Boca de Lobo, of the march to the last fastness of the brigands on an isolated peak surrounded by precipices on every side, and joined only to the mass of the sierra by a narrow bridge of living rock. Here was situated one of the dwelling caves of Don Q., and the spot was fortified by sangars craftily constructed to dominate the approach.

“My lord and I walked last, for those others were not willing to go to the Punta de Lanza,” said Robledo.

“But why?” Lalor asked in surprise. “It could never be taken if defended.”

“True, señor. But also one could not run away from it.”

He spoke of a man who tried to desert, and whom he and a companion had hurled from the cliff, and of shepherding the remainder across the rocky bridge. Having completed his preparations, a characteristic fit of gloom and silence fell upon the Chief. The last scout had been withdrawn, the bridge had been strewn with stones and boulders to make the footing treacherous. All was ready. Two days of waiting followed, while they lay cut off from all the world. Two blue, golden days, that reflected the glories of the sierra above, and far beneath the peaceful smoke rising from scattered hovels, and the haze that clung round distant towns on the warm and drowsy plain.

“Thus we waited, watching, my lord and I and those fourteen, for the coming of three hundred.” The young Spaniard stopped and sat musing with frowning brows, until Isabelilla, growing impatient, laid her arms across his shoulder. He started slightly and resumed.

Once or twice the echo of a shot rang sadly from gorge to gorge. And at last came a dawn which showed them the enemy. With the rising of the sun a company advanced to storm the position of the brigands. Don Q. had supplied each of his men with three loaded magazine-rifles, and bade them reserve their fire until he gave the signal.

“My lord lay beside me in the trench,” Robledo told it with pride, “and we saw that none of our foes was quick to step first upon the bridge, till a tall captain thrust out of the crowd. He had a white face under big black eyebrows, and he drove a man before him with his naked sword. It was Pablo. My lord laid his cheek to the rifle, and it yelped in my ear. Pablo twirled round, screaming, and seized the captain about the middle. They twisted on the bridge as strong men twist in a grapple, and in a moment they reeled over the edge together.

“Then the great Seññor Don Q. leaped upon a high rock, where all could behold him, and called to Don Hugo to see how a traitor died! Señor, I shut my eyes, I could hear the bullets chipping upon the rocks round my lord, I almost felt the weight of his body as it fell,” Robledo rubbed himself reminiscently. “But it was a sore thrust in the side from the butt of my lord’s rifle—I doubt but it broke a rib or two—for he was angry. ‘Fool! Can they kill me?’ he said.

“A great battle followed. The slaughter upon the narrow path was terrible. The troops, attempting to rush it, were shot down again and again. The vultures’ wings came between the sun and the fight, casting their shadows on the dead. Still the brigands held off the enemy. Don Q. was everywhere, passing from trench to trench, exposing himself recklessly.

“Shouts, señor, and many screaming above the loud rattling of the shots. Men and muskets tossed like rags in a wind as they pitched into the chasm. I have met death in the face many a time, señor, but not like that!” the young fellow shuddered.

“By midday the Governor drew off his troops from the desperate encounter, and sat down to wait until his ally starvation should begin to tell upon the courage of the besieged. But though only one of them was wounded, the brigands began to grumble among themselves, and concoct plans for betraying their Chief.

“But one cannot deceive him, señor,” remarked Robledo, confidently. “When night fell he called them to him from the trenches, and read their hearts as a priest reads his book. They denied their treachery with oaths. Then my lord said if any would still follow him and fight, let them stand out on his side.” Isabelilla, crouched by the young robber, gazed up at him with blazing eyes.

“How many stood on his side? Tell me,” she said.

“But one only.”

“And that one? I know him! It was you, my Robledo!” exclaimed the girl.

He nodded, and she flung her arms round him in a fierce caress.

“My lord laughed,” Robledo crossed himself. “He laughed, but I feared his laughter. He drove those others from the cave, and bade them live or die as they would. For a while he sat silent, señor, and then he told me to follow him. We crept in the darkness over the peak, and down upon the other side, and my lord led me by goat tracks for a long time, and we came at length to a hole, and he made me enter. In truth, I feared to enter—but also I feared my lord.

“In a little time my lord lit a lantern. Señor, we were in a tunnel under the bridge of rock, and it grew smaller, till we were obliged to crawl as a wild cat crawls through the underbrush, and my breathing came hard. I know not how long we crept through the heart of the mountains; my head was bursting, and I vowed an offering to the patron saint of hunters, if I ever escaped to the free air again. At the last I found myself lying in a hollow of deep grass with the wind blowing over me.

“The moon was out, and through a screen of bushes we could see the bridge and the peak. The soldiers were flying a white flag and taking their wounded from the bridge, and a white flag came up out of the trenches on the Punta de Lanza. I feared for the anger of my lord. But he only laughed very softly, and pointed to one who lay on his face beside the end of the path and held talk with some of the civil guard.”

“They were betraying the peak—your own men?”

“Yes, señor. But the people of the Governor feared treachery, and would not pass over. In the end the civil guards rushed across—there are men of spirit in the civil guard,” Robledo remarked generously—“and by degrees nearly all the troops passed over and swarmed upon the Punta de Lanza, searching for my lord. Then I found that my lord was gone from beside me.

“Listen, señor. Don Hugo himself passed over, for I saw him. Indeed, when they knew the surrender was complete all would have gone to look at the cave of Don Q., for never before in all the history of the sierra have the expeditions found a dwelling of my lord’s. So I thought of these things within myself and wondered what my lord would do, when I was shaken by a horrible noise that deafened me. And the mountain vomited a leaping flame and shook with the pain of its torment. Great stones and rocks hurled upward, and for many minutes the voices that my lord of the mountains called to his aid, rang and roared in the sierra that is his.”

Lalor felt his own face pale.

“Go on!” he cried.

“I could hear men stumbling and groaning and crying on the saints. And then, señor, I think I slept, for I was weary. When the sun rose I wakened, and my lord was standing beside me in the thicket and bade me look down. I looked. Señor, it was a wonderful sight! The bridge was gone, and there upon the Punta de Lanza, upon the crags we had defended only yesterday, half an army was clinging, able neither to go forward, because of the precipices, nor to return because of the broken path across the chasm.

“After I had looked a long time, my lord spoke. ‘Robledo,’ he said, ‘you see that none may ever triumph over me. Tell that to thy friends. But many will say I am dead. You alone know I am not. Go to Castelleno and tell but two only—the Señor Lalor, and your Isabelilla. If you tell the secret to any other in Spain, I will know.’”

“And your lord, where is he?” questioned Lalor after a pause.

Robledo shook his head obstinately.

“I will tell my story to the end,” he answered, “My lord and I sat together in the hollow to rest, and my lord said I should not see him again for a long time. ‘Go you and marry your Isabelilla, and be happy if you can,’ he said. ‘But I do not think you will be so, for that woman has a fierce heart. And you had better sell your guitar or bury it, Robledo, for men do not serenade their wives, and such a wife as yours will not allow you to serenade others.’ So spoke my lord.”

Isabelilla sighed in the silence.

“My lord was the wisest of men,” she murmured.

“And have you no message whatever for me?” asked Lalor in some disappointment.

“Yes, señor,” Robledo took up a package from a corner. “My lord said, ‘Tell the señor that, though for the time men think me dead, I live still. Tell him that I have bequeathed to him a little autobiography of my life, which—if none hear of me again within a year—he will, for my sake, offer to the consideration of a publisher, in order that the world may know a little more of one of its greatest and most blameless men.’”