WE GO FROM VALETTA TO SEEK MY LADY BIDDY ELSEWHERE.
The next day seemed to me as if it would never come to an end, having nothing much else to do than to watch for Matthew's return; and what made it more tedious and wearisome was that my comrade had started bidding me expect him back before midday.
"For," says he, "the next station, if I remember right, is but a matter of four or five leagues distant; so that, starting betimes, they must needs arrive about ten or eleven at the outside."
When he came not at noon I began to torment myself with fears lest some mischance had happened to Matthew; either that he had been clapped up in a bridewell to cure him of his sores, or had been recognized by Lewis de Pino, to his great misfortune. And though this was grievous enough to think on (for I loved the kind, honest rogue), yet it was nothing beside the concern I felt for Lady Biddy had such an accident arrived; for while I was lingering here, with my hands idle by my side, Lewis de Pino might be hurrying away with her to Quito.
As soon as the first star began to twinkle I could bear this suspense no longer, and started out towards the town; for if Matthew were free, I knew he would leave the town when the gates were about to be closed. About half a league from the town I met him (to my great joy), and my first question was what news he had brought with him.
Instead of beating about the bush and making a joke of my impatience, he answered, very soberly, that De Pino and his train had not yet entered the town.
"Hows'mever," says he, "there's no call to be cast down about that matter, for I may very well have made a mistake in the distance, seeing I have traveled over the road but once, and that ten or a dozen years ago. One thing is certain, master—they must arrive to-morrow, and this delay is all to our advantage, since it has given me time to pry about the town, and examine in what manner we may best contrive to get the female out of De Pino's hands."
Therewith he entered into the design he had formed for this purpose, describing the inn at which the merchants stayed, with the means of getting out of the town, and into it, without passing the gate, etc., etc., in such detail that he gave me no time to think of anything else till we had eaten our supper and emptied the wine-skin, when he declared he was too tired to converse longer; and so, laying himself down, bade me good-night and presently began to snore.
But then, my mind being no longer occupied with his return, I grew uneasy again about this delay, and could not close an eye for my trouble. I had noticed that Matthew was much less merry than usual, and now I took it into my head that the long-winded description of the inn, and his ingenious project for rescuing "the female," was nothing but a design to divert my mind, and make his own uneasiness less noticeable.
'Twas useless attempting to sleep in this disorder of mind, and I could no longer lie still when day broke; but getting up quietly, so that I might not awake Matthew, I went to a little distance and paced backwards and forwards with a heavy heart. Presently Matthew, getting up, comes to my side, and says he:
"Can't you sleep, master?"
"No," says I.
"No more can I," says he, "and I took a pretty stiff dose of wine, too, for my nightcap. I ha'n't slept a wink all night."
"You've snored pretty continually, nevertheless," says I.
"As for that," says he, "I'm a man that must be doing something; and 'tis as easy to snore as to wear spots on your face; but one is no more a sign of sleep than t'other is of a distemper."
"Why couldn't you sleep, Matthew?" says I. "What's amiss?"
"Well," says he, "De Pino and the female ought to have come in yesterday morning at the latest."
"But you said you might have made a mistake as to the distance?"
"So I might," says he slyly; "but, to make quite sure, I took the pains to inquire last night of my friend at the inn, outside the town, and I found I had not."
"Then you believe they ought to have been here before now?" says I sharply.
"Yes, master," says he gravely. "They ought to have come in the night afore last, or yesterday morning at the latest. When it came noon yesterday I gave them up; yet I stayed there in the hope I was wrong. First saying to myself that, being warned of your escape by the factor, he had thought it well to make an ambush, and wait for you to come up; and then that he had stopped for some reason of his business; but these arguments wouldn't do—and, to cut a long story short, I made up my mind when I saw the gates closed last night, and no sign of De Pino along the road for half a mile—I made up my mind, I say, that he had taken another road."
"Taken another road!" says I, in a terrible amazement.
"Ay," says he. "I can account for it in no other way."
"And why did you not tell me this last night?" I asks angrily.
"We could do nothing in the dark, and I hoped you would get a good night's sleep and be fresh for a march this morning," says he simply. "There was no good in plaguing you before your time."
I could not be angry with the fellow after that, for he was in the right, and, 'twas out of pure kindness of heart he had held his tongue.
"I though you were so sure of the road, Matthew?" says I.
"So I was, master; and more fool I. Don't spare me; I deserve all the blame, for 'twas I who would have you come by the river when you would have gone by the road."
"Did you make no inquiry about this road last night?"
"Ay," says he. "No other road to Quito is known to the innkeeper but this. Yet he may be as great a fool as I in that matter; and though De Pino could take no other road to Quito, he might, for all that, have turned aside to some other place."
"What do you propose we should do now, Matthew?"
"Get on to the road, and hark back as soon as there is light enough for us to pick our way. We will hit the road within sight of the town-gates before they are opened, to make certain they have not come up."
The poor fellow was so crestfallen, having now no heart to disguise his discomfiture, that to cheer him I professed to be in no way disheartened by this failure.
"For," says I, "there is this advantage about it: I shall not have to rest idle here any longer. 'Twill be light enough to begin our march in half an hour."
"Why, that's true, master," says he, brightening up; "and, not to waste time, we'll have a good meal to strengthen us against fatigue."
"There's nothing to eat," says I; "we finished every scrap last night."
"Nay," says he; "I laid out for that, and brought home a peck loaf and a roast loin of mutton with me last night."
I remembered he was pretty well charged when we met overnight, but had taken no heed of what he carried, thinking in the dark it was but another skin of wine.
"Parrots are all very well for high feeding, and so are serpents and such-like," says he, fetching his loaf and the loin of mutton, "but give me bread and roast mutton when there's work to be done."
When we had finished our repast, Matthew buckled on his sword, and we started off. Striking the road after an hour's march, and making sure that no cavalcade lay between us and the town, we turned our faces to the north, and strode out with a will: nor did we check our pace for two hours, albeit the way lay all up hill and none too smooth. We met not a soul all that time, for only merchants with their trains of mules, etc., pass this way, and they not frequently, so that for a whole week there may not be a single traveler to be met. Indeed, we had scarcely dared to travel that way otherwise, for our appearance would have justified any one in taking us for outlaws—I in my tattered finery, with a peck loaf slung on my shoulder, as great knife in my girdle, a long sword in my hand, and nothing but an uncombed crop of hair on my head; and Matthew likewise fiercely armed, with a wine-skin and a bundle of broken victuals at his back, scarcely enough clothes to cover his nakedness, and a complexion as if he had just escaped from a lazar-house—in fine, as unwelcome a knight and squire as any one might wish to meet. Nor were our movements much more reassuring than our appearance, for at every turn of the road we would stop with our swords firmly gripped, peering round the rocks and betwixt the bushes, as if we were on the lookout for some one to waylay and murder.
At length we came in sight of a station, and here with great prudence we went about to spy into it, and yet not be seen ourselves; and this, by reason of its position and the chance of encountering hunters in the surrounding wood, was a painful and tedious business; but finally getting upon the further side, and crawling near with terrible fear (lest we might arouse some watch-dog, and so have a repetition of our former trouble), we got a fair sight into the village, where was nothing to be seen but four bearded rascals playing of cards. And so, creeping out of that wood as carefully as we had crept in, we once more got into the road, and pushed onward till noon without stopping, except at the bends of the road as aforesaid.
At noon we stooped to eat and refresh ourselves, and that done, we went onward again for best part of two hours, though the sun was now at its height; but by reason we were now very high up on the side of the mountain, and that in many places the rock sheltered us with an agreeable shade, we were not so hot but that we could still march with a good heart. Yet here we stayed to consult together, for we had come to a part of the road where we could not conceal ourselves if we met Lewis de Pino, nor retreat without exposing ourselves to the fire of his arquebuses. For the path wound along close by the side of the mountain, with no growth of herbs, and all barren for a long distance in front; nor was it possible to get out of the path by clambering upwards or sliding downwards for the prodigious steepness of it, and the road so narrow that no two pack-mules could pass each other, except by standing aside in certain cavities hewn here and there in the rock in case of one train meeting another. Down below lay the woods, but so deep that the highest tree-tops came no nearer than a couple of hundred feet of where we stood.
"Master," says Matthew, "if we meet De Pino and his merry men on this road 'twill be a bad job for us."
"Ay," says I; "and the sooner we get to the other end of it the safer we shall be."
"Lord love you, master," says he, "what a thing it is to be a philosopher! Here might I jeopardize my precious life another ten minutes but for your wisdom."