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 repetition of such an attack by the mob as that from which he had so narrowly escaped with life. Mr. Passmore'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. Passmore'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. Alcala's pale features showed the sufferings which he had lately undergone: he looked like one newly risen from a sick-bed, with sunken cheek, colourless lip, and languid eye. As with graceful courtesy the cavalier proffered his wasted hand to the lady, on the minds of both Alcala and Antonia flashed back memory of the hour when that hand had been deemed unworthy to touch the white kid glove of the heiress—that hour when, like an empress, she had stepped into her galley on the glittering Guadalquivir.
Silently Alcala conducted Antonia through the arched way to the carriage which was to bear her from Seville. Not till she had placed her foot on the carriage-step did the cavalier utter a word.
"Farewell, señorita!" said Alcala. Antonia turned towards him, but in silence; the eyes of the two met—it was the last look that was ever to pass between them. Soon the motion of the rolling wheels separated Alcala and Antonia de Rivadeo for ever.
But for the support of Lucius's arm, Alcala could hardly have walked back to the patio. He sank down wearily on the first seat that he reached, too much exhausted to do more than extend his hand, with a faint smile on his lips, to Inez, who knelt by his side.
"Bring wine, Teresa!" cried Inez, looking anxiously at the face of her brother.
"Wine!" exclaimed the old woman, stung into momentary forgetfulness of the presence of the English stranger—"wine!" she repeated bitterly, "when the last drop left in this ruined house was poured out for that proud woman; and there's not a cuarto in the coffer to buy more for the caballero if his life depended upon it! Woe, woe to the Aguileras!"
"Never say so!" cried Lucius Lepine, and the joy of being the bearer of good news seemed to the young man at that moment to outweigh all that he had gone through to procure it. "The Aguileras have a casket of golden plate and rich jewels safely buried near a palm-tree beside a wood, not two miles from Seville; they have only to dig it out and possess it. Donna Inez, the Englishman has kept his word."
"A casket of gold plate and jewels!" almost screamed out Teresa, who scarcely dared to believe her own ears; "you don't say it—you can't mean it!—what! the box with clamps of steel, the old señora's jewel-case, which I've handled many a day!" The wrinkled hand laid on the arm of Lucius was shaking with violent excitement.
"I do say it—I do mean it," replied Lucius, whose countenance was beaming with pleasure.
"But, my friend, how is this possible?" asked Alcala; "the miserable Chico—"
"Lies murdered by his own accomplices," said Lucius more gravely; "fearful retribution has overtaken the servant who robbed his master."
Lucius then recounted to his deeply interested hearers the tale of his night's adventures, dwelling as lightly as he could on what only related to himself. No one interrupted the narration, save Teresa, who could not refrain ever and anon from uttering some ejaculation, now of indignation, now of delight. When Lucius came to the account of burying the box near the palm-tree, the old duenna could restrain her feelings no longer. To the astonishment of the Englishman she suddenly flung herself at his feet, and clasped his knees in an ecstasy of gratitude, admiration, and joy!
"The blessing of all the saints be upon you, brave, noble Señor Inglesito!" exclaimed old Teresa, while tears streamed down her wrinkled face; "if you were as deep-dyed a heretic as Luther himself, I would bless you a thousand times over! You have saved a noble family from ruin!"