Читать книгу A Castle in Spain - James De Mille - Страница 16

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The train, which had been released by the Carlists, went on its way, and after running about ten miles, came to a little town. Here a long stay was made, during which information was received of so serious a character that it was resolved, for the present at least, not to go any farther. In the first place, the train which had immediately preceded had halted at the next station beyond, and this train could not move until the other had started; but, in addition to this, there came reports of all sorts, to the effect that the whole country was swarming with Carlists, who had occupied the lines of railroad and cut the telegraph wires. It was the latter circumstance that was most troublesome, since it made it impossible to get any definite information.

The end of it was, that the passengers had to shift for themselves, and find shelter and occupation as best they could, until they should be able to go on to their destinations: of which passengers only two need be mentioned here, namely, Captain Lopez and the priest. The former, having been thus rudely separated from Katie, had no object in going any farther, and therefore was quite willing to remain in this place. But it soon appeared that he had plenty to do. He at once set forth to communicate with the civil and military authorities, in the hope of obtaining assistance toward rescuing Katie from her captivity; and such was his zeal and energy, that before long he had received the most earnest promises of assistance and co-operation from all to whom he applied. As for the priest aforesaid, he had a different purpose, and that purpose did not lead him to make any effort to procure lodgings. He refreshed himself with a repast at the nearest hosteria, after which, girding up his loins, he left the place by the high-road.

The road at first ran through the plain, where, on every side, there stretched away fields of brown grass, with flocks of sheep and goats. The attendants upon these were nowhere visible, and this lack of human life and action gave to the country an indescribable air of solitude and desertion. In other respects, however, there was everything which could gratify the eye and the taste. The land was fertile, the soil cultivated, the scenery beautiful. Tall trees—the mulberry and the poplar—arose in long lines; here and there the cactus stretched forth its thorny arms, and at intervals there appeared the dark green of extensive olive-groves. Behind the traveller there extended a wall of purple hills, and before him arose the giant heights of the Pyrenees. Among these last the road at length entered, and, winding along at the base of sloping hills, it ascended very gradually.

The priest walked onward at a long, slinging pace, which told of the experienced pedestrian. For three hours he kept this up, being too intent upon his progress, and upon his own thoughts, to pay much attention to the scenery, except so far as was needed for purposes of precaution. Save for this, the external form of nature and the many beauties around him were disregarded; and at length, after three hours, he sat down to rest at a rock by the wayside. Sitting here, he drew forth from his pocket a well-used pipe, which he filled and lighted; after which he sat smoking, and surveying, in a contemplative manner, the scene before him.

It was, in truth, a scene well worthy of contemplation. For many a mile the eye of the beholder could rove over the course of the Ebro, and take in the prospect of one of the fairest lands in all the world. He had advanced high enough to overlook the valley, which lay behind him, with lines of hills in the distance, while in front arose the mountains dark in the heavy shade. To the west the country spread away until, in the far distance, it ended in a realm of glory. For here the sun was sinking into a wide basin formed by a break in the lines of mountains, filling it all with fire and splendor; and while the hollow between the hills was thus filled with flame, immediately above this there were piled up vast masses of heavy strata clouds, of fantastic shapes and intense blackness. Above these the sky grew clearer, but was still overlaid with thin streaks of cirrus clouds, which were tinted with every hue of the rainbow, and spread over all the western heavens up to the zenith and beyond.

In that low mass of strata clouds which overhung the sunset there was now a wild convulsion. A storm was raging there, too far away to be felt, but plainly visible. The fantastic shapes were flung together in furious disorder; through the confused masses electric flashes shot forth; sometimes in floods of glory, sometimes in straight lines of forked lightning, sometimes in rounded lumps of suddenly revealed fire—the true bolts of Jove. Toward the south the hills lay wrapped in haze and gloom, and in one part there was a heavy shower, where the rain streamed down in vertical lines.

The sun went down, leaving behind it a redder splendor by which all was glorified; the river wound in molten gold; the trees were tipped with purple lustre; the crests of the mountains took on aureoles of light. As the sun still descended, the scene was slowly transformed; the splendor lessened; the clouds broke up into other forms; the thick strata mass dissipated itself; then came a golden haze over the wide west; the moon revealed itself over the head of Scorpio, with Antares beaming from a bright place in the sky.

The scenes shifted rapidly, and twilight deepened, until the clouds made way for the moon, and, breaking up into thin light masses, swept away over the sky; while the moon, assuming its proper functions, looked mildly down, and bathed all the valley in a mellow lustre.

After about half an hour's rest, the priest arose, put his pipe in his pocket, and resumed his long stride. Up the road he went, without stopping again, as though he had resolved to cross the Pyrenees in that one night, and be over in France by morning: of whom it might be said, in the words of the Chinese poet,

"That young man walkee no can stop."

Another hour brought him a good four miles farther on, and still he kept up the same pace. He now reached a place where the road took a somewhat sudden turn, and wound around a rocky projection on the lull-side. Here, as he turned, he came full upon a figure that was walking in the opposite direction.

It was the figure of a woman; and in that bright moonshine it was easy to see that she was young, and graceful, and light, and elastic. Coming suddenly upon the priest as she did, at the turn in the road, she was evidently quite terrified. Her attitude was that of a stealthy fugitive; and as she met him there was, in her sudden involuntary gesture, the appearance of one who has been captured by a pursuer. For an instant she recoiled in an agony of terror, but then one glance at the costume of the priest seemed to reassure her; and then, clasping her hands, she came nearer, and said, in tremulous tones:

"Padre! padre! per l'amor de Dios soccorre me!"

The priest looked at her for a few moments in silence. Then he spoke.

"Étez vous Française, mademoiselle?"

The woman shook her head.

"E ella Italiana?"

Again she shook her head.

"Sind sie Deutsch?"

Another shake of the head, and then she said:

"Yo soy Inglesa."

The priest gave a long whistle.

"English!" he cried; "English! Then in future please be kind enough to speak English, for your Spanish—is—well, declined, with thanks."

At these words the woman started, and then, with an uncontrollable impulse, seized the hand of the priest in a convulsive grasp.

"Oh!" she cried, "are you really—really an Englishman? Oh, thank Heaven! thank Heaven! Then you will help me!"

"English?" said the priest; "well, for the matter of that, I'm anything you please just now, in this infernal country. I certainly do speak English, but at the same time I prefer calling myself what I am—namely, an American."

This loquacity of the priest made no impression upon the woman, who was absorbed now by her one idea of escape, of obtaining help, of flight.

"Oh, sir," she continued, "can you help me? Can I go on by this road? Do you know what I can do? Will you tell me?"

"Oh yes," said the priest, "I'll tell you. I do not know what you can do. What can you do? You can read, perhaps, and I suppose you can play the piano, and crochet; but I know what you cannot do—you cannot speak Spanish."

These words were spoken with the indifferent air of one who is thinking of something else.

"Ah, sir," said the woman, in a tone of anguish, "don't mock at me! I'm in distress unspeakable. I've—I've lost my way."

She could scarcely speak from agitation. The priest was silent for a moment. Then he drew a long breath.

"Lost your way?" said he. "Well, that is queer too. Your way—and what way can that be in times like these, and here in this country, and, above all, in this part of the country? Are you walking for a wager? Are you going round the world in a bee-line? Do you carry a portable canoe?"

"I was in the diligence," said the woman, not choosing to notice such ill-timed levity, "and we were stopped—by the Carlists—and I escaped—and I'm trying to find my way to some safe place—but I cannot—I cannot."

"H'm!" said the priest, "that is a coincidence too—just my own case to a T. I've been captured by the Carlists too, and I've escaped, and I'm now making a bolt for a place of safety. Well, this does beat my grandmother, I must say!"

The lady was too full of her own troubles to notice the peculiar expressions of the priest. She merely continued, as before, to beg for help.

"Oh, sir," said she, "do you know the way here? and can you help me?"

"Well," said the priest, "I know some of it, I may say, but that depends on what you mean by knowing it. But will you allow me to ask you one or two questions? In the first place, where did you come from last?"

"Last?" said the lady; "the last place I came from was Barcelona."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"You spoke of a diligence. You must have come from Barcelona by train."

"Of course."

"Then that must have been the train that stopped over there."

"Yes; the train stopped. I understood that it was not going on any farther for a long time, for that the track was torn up. A diligence was prepared for those passengers who were anxious to go on immediately, and I was most eager to proceed without delay, so as to get to my home as soon as possible. So, early this morning, we left, and came, without any incident of any kind until we reached a place about five miles away. There we were stopped and robbed. I believe all the passengers were detained and held as prisoners—at least I myself was. I was handed over to the care of a peasant woman, who took me to a cottage. About two hours ago she came to me and told me that I might go, and urged me to fly at once. I could not understand her very well, for I know very little Spanish indeed, but I could see that she was sorry for me, and offered me this chance of escape. It was also quite evident that she considered me in great danger, and was frightened about me. I felt deeply grateful, and offered her a gold locket which had escaped the notice of the robbers, but she refused it. So then I started off. I've come along the road ever since, and have seen no one except yourself. And now, sir," continued the lady, looking at the priest with intense earnestness, "can you help me? Will you? Oh, for the love of—"

Here the priest interrupted her. The lady had spoken in a low voice, which had a very mournful cadence, and besides this there were signs of deep emotion in the tremulous tones and the agitated manner. Her flight had been a long and a hurried one; the exertion had been severe; her strength had been put forth to the utmost; she was on the verge of utter exhaustion. Everything in her appearance, voice, and manner combined to inspire pity and sympathy. The good priest had seemed not unmoved as she was speaking, and now he interrupted her, raising his hand, and speaking in a very gentle voice.

"Ah, now," said he, "come—none of that! Do you think me a savage, that you must pray to me for mercy? Help you!" he repeated, in stronger tones. "Ay, madame, that will I, and with the last drop of my heart's-blood and to my life's end. There, is that strong enough? Help you!"—and he gave a short laugh—"that's good, too! Why, what else have I been thinking of ever since I met you? What else can you suppose that I intend to do? Isn't it enough for me to see your distress? But come—it isn't quite so safe as it might be, and enemies may be lurking near. We must first find a place of retirement, where we can decide on what is best to be done."

The tones of the priest's voice were now totally different from those which he had employed hitherto. These were harsh, dry, indifferent, almost mocking; but now they were full of sincere feeling and unmistakable truth. Their effect upon the lady was very marked and strong. She clasped her hands, bowed her head, and in her weakness was unable to bear up under this new revulsion of feeling; so she burst into tears and stood there weeping.

At this the priest was not a little embarrassed. For a moment he seemed about to try to soothe her; but be checked this impulse, and looked away, whistling softly to himself. After a few moments he went on, speaking in a gentle voice:

"I've been going along alone easily enough, but now, if you will come with me, I shall have to make some changes in my plans. You see, two cannot travel so easily as one; and then you are a lady, and an English lady too, which in these parts means a wealthy foreigner—an object of plunder. You, as an English lady, run an amount of risk to which I, as a Spanish priest, am not at all exposed. So you see we can no longer remain in so public a place as this high-road. We must seek some secure place, at least for the present. You don't seem able to go much farther. This moonlight night is just the time for flight, but you need rest now, and unless you get that first you won't be able to escape at all. And so—what do you say to my hunting up a hiding-place for the night?"

As the priest began to speak, the lady had made a violent effort to recover herself and had succeeded well enough to listen attentively, only showing by an occasional sigh or sob that her distress had not yet passed away altogether. At the priest's question she paused thoughtfully for a short time, and then said,

"My being with you will make a great difference to you?"

"Oh yes," said the priest.

"It will perhaps endanger your safety," continued the lady, anxiously.

"Oh, that is nothing," said the priest; "that is my normal state. I am always in danger."

"Still, I should be sorry to add to your danger," she said, hesitatingly; "and if—if—"

"Well," said the priest, sharply, "if what?"

"If I am a source of danger," said the lady, calmly, "I should prefer going on alone, just as I was; and I shall only ask you to tell me what is the nearest town, and to give me generally the direction to it."

"Oh, you will, will you?" said the priest, in the mocking tone which he had previously used. "Well, then, madame, I shall only ask you to do as I say, and ask no questions. I know the country—you don't. I have registered a vow in heaven to save you, and save you I will, even in spite of all your teeth. I swear it in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!"

At these strange words the lady was silent for a few moments, and then said, in a tremulous voice,

"I'll do anything that you wish me to do."

"Furthermore, my hearer," continued the priest, suddenly assuming and immediately dropping the whine of a rustic preacher, "mark this—I don't mind saying a few words to ease your scruples: you cannot make my position any more dangerous than it is already. I carry my life in my hand all the time."

"Still," said the lady, "you can easily take care of yourself; but what a terrible thing it would be if you should get into trouble on my account!"

"Well, I'll ask only one question—what is your calling in life?"

"I have no calling. I'm a lady—"

"Spinster?" said the priest, in a mild voice.

"Yes," said the lady, gravely, and with deep sadness. It seemed to the priest that he had unwittingly touched upon a tender point.

"Pardon me," said he, "this is all I wish to get at. You are not a politician, not a political agent, not a spy?"

"Certainly not."

"Nor a newspaper correspondent?"

"No."

"Not even an artist?"

"No; nothing but a simple English lady, and only anxious to get back home."

"Very well—very good!" said the priest, approvingly. "And you shall go home, too; but remember what I said, and trust in me. And now let us see what we had better do. I've been here before, all through and through this country, and know it like a book. Now just over there, a little to the west, there is an old unoccupied castle, which is in very good condition, considering that it's a thousand years old. It is just the place for us. Unfortunately, there may be others in it, for it is held from time to time by the one or the other of the fighting factions; yet, even in that case I know of an odd corner or two where we can elude observation for the present; for it is a very—a monstrously large castle, and I happen to know the ins and outs of it pretty well. I can assure you a good night's rest there."

"It is not inhabited, you say."

"No, not as a general thing."

"I'm sorry for that. If it were, the people would perhaps give us shelter and food, and help us on our way."

"The people would perhaps give us more shelter than we might care for. But come—we ought to be off, for you need rest, and that soon."

The lady said nothing, but walked along with the priest. For about a quarter of a mile they followed the road, and then turned away to the left over the country. Here their pathway lay over the flank of the mountain, and traversed open fields which were used for pasture. The moon shone brightly, illuminating the scene, and the priest walked with the assured air of one who knew his way thoroughly.

The lady, who all along had seemed much fatigued, now began to give more evident signs of distress. The priest made her take his arm: she did so, and for a time was relieved. He sought to cheer her with encouraging words. She responded nobly, and certainly made all the effort in her power; but her strength had that day been too sorely tasked, and threatened to fail her utterly. At last she sank to the ground, and sat there, while the priest waited patiently.

"Courage!" said he. "Cheer up! We shall soon be there now."

After a short rest the lady recovered a little, and made a final effort. They walked on as before, the lady holding the priest's arm, and moving forward by dint of desperate exertions. So they went until at last there appeared immediately ahead a massive tower, which seemed to arise from behind some trees.

"There it is," said the priest. "One more effort."

But the lady could go no farther. She sank down on the ground once more, with something like a groan.

"I can go no farther," said she, in a faint voice.

The priest made no reply, but stood for some time in silence watching her. It was evident that he hoped for another rally of her powers, but he was disappointed; for the lady sat with her head bowed down, trembling, weeping, and all unnerved. Time passed, and there was no revival of strength.

"Madame!" said the priest at length, in a harsh and constrained voice.

At this the lady gave a sigh, and tried to raise herself, but without success. After a useless effort she sank down again.

"Madame," said the priest, "to stay here is out of the question. We have not much farther to go; the place of our destination is not far off, and I am going to carry you there."

"No," said the lady, "you must not. I—I—"

"Madame," interrupted the other, "as a priest it is my duty to succor the distressed, and even as a man I should feel bound to save you."

"It's too much for you," said the lady, faintly. "Save yourself. It's no matter—what—becomes of—of me."

"Oh, it isn't, isn't it?" said the priest, in his dryest manner. "Well, you will please remember that you and I are in the same boat, and we must win or lose together. And so, as I don't intend to be captured yet awhile, why, madame, with your permission, and begging your pardon, I'll take the liberty of saving you in my own way. At the same time, please remember that it's not for your sake I'm doing this so much as for my own."

What possible meaning there might be to these last words the priest did not explain, nor did the lady understand. In fact, there was no time for explanation. The priest, without any more ado, raised the lady in his arms and marched off with her.

He was not a very large man, but he was very muscular, and in excellent training; so he trudged on at a pace which, under all the circumstances, was really wonderful. Fortunately he did not have very far to carry his burden. Before long he came to a grove of large trees, which stood wide apart and admitted of an easy passage. Traversing this, he at length reached a low tower, which was in a half-ruinous condition. It stood upon the brink of a deep chasm, the sides of which were densely wooded, while at the bottom there was a brawling brook. Upon the other side of the chasm appeared the outline of a stately castle, with walls and towers and battlements and keep, all plainly discernible as they rose up in giant proportions.