CHAPTER LX. — IN WHICH THE KING COMES TO CLAIM HIS OWN.
The party of prisoners was conducted by "His Majesty" to that upper room which had formerly been occupied by the ladies. Mrs. Russell clung to the royal person as fondly as ever. It was a critical hour in the destinies of Spain.
"Where's Rita," cried "His Majesty," "that cook of cooks? It's starvin' we are. I haven't seen her anywheres. I'll go an' hunt her up."
With these words he hurried out, followed by Mrs. Russell. They descended the stairs, and their footsteps died away in the distance. No one was now with the prisoners except the wounded Republicans.
"Let us fly!" said Harry, in a quick, sharp whisper.
He hurried Katie to the chimney, and, clambering up, drew her after him. The others followed at once. Dolores came next to Harry.
"I know a secret way out," said she. "I will show the way. Let me go ahead. I know it in the dark."
"Do you?" said Harry. "Oh, then go ahead."
Upon this Dolores took the lead along with Ashby; Harry and Katie came next, while Brooke and Talbot brought up the rear, these last being full of wonder at this unexpected revelation of the passage-way.
By this time each member of the party had gained a full and complete comprehension as well as appreciation of the present state of things, both with reference to the old lover, and also the new one. Embarrassment had now passed away, and all were full of hope, joy, and enthusiasm.
Suddenly a hollow groan sounded through the darkness.
"Who's there?" cried Ashby, in Spanish.
"Help! help!" said a faint voice, in English.
"An Englishman!" cried Ashby, speaking in English. "Who are you?"
"Oh, help! help! I'm a prisoner. A fiend has me in her power! Once I was named Russell, but now—oh! oh! my name is Rita!"
Full of wonder, Ashby felt his way forward, and found a man on the floor. His legs and arms were tied. He was almost speechless, partly from terror and partly from joy. In a few words he told his story, which need not be repeated here.
Rita had bound him, and had only left him a short time before at the sudden noise of their approach. It was not until afterward that they understood the whole story, for just then they were in too great a hurry to ask questions. A pull from Ashby's brandy-flask partly restored Russell's strength, but more was accomplished by his joy at this unexpected deliverance. Terror also came to his aid and lent him strength, and he was now more anxious than any of them to fly from this awful prison-house.
Dolores now led the way as before, and they all followed down long steps and crooked passage-ways until at last they reached the outlet. Here they found themselves in the chasm. A hasty consultation ended in the decision not to go to the tower for fear lest Carlists might be there. They concluded, therefore, to go along the chasm for some distance, and then ascend to the open country above, and after this to go forward as far as possible that same night.
They traversed the chasm in this way, and at length reached the top, where they found themselves to be about a mile away from the castle. Here the ground sloped gently, descending into a broad valley, to which they decided to go. In this direction they therefore proceeded as carefully as possible, and had gone about two miles in safety when suddenly they became aware of a great noise, like the quick trot of numerous horses. It was advancing so rapidly that they had no time to take measures for escape, and before they could consult together a troop of horsemen came over a rising ground in front and galloped straight toward them.
A wild look all around showed them the hopelessness of their situation. The country was open. There was not a house or a fence or a tree or a bush that might afford a hiding-place. Flight was useless. They could do nothing now but trust to the faint hope that they might be deemed unworthy of attention. But soon this hope proved vain. They were seen—they were surrounded—they were again prisoners.
They soon learned that this new band consisted of Carlists; that they were on the way to the castle to join the King, who had gone on before.
The King!
Katie knew who that was. Harry was puzzled, as he always had been, about "His Majesty." Dolores also was mystified, since she had never believed that "His Majesty" was what he pretended to be. Ashby, also, had not believed it, and now was more puzzled than any of them. Brooke and Talbot, however, were strangers to the pretensions of that singular being who called himself King, and therefore hoped that this would turn out for the best. As for Russell, he was in despair, for to him "His Majesty" was more dreaded than any other human being, with the single and terrible exception of Rita. And now he felt himself dragged back to meet him—worse, to meet Rita. Despair took full possession of him. All his strength left him, and one of the troopers had to give up his horse to the world-worn captive.
It was with such feelings as these that the party reached the castle, and were led up-stairs into the presence of the King.
The first glance which they gave around showed them that there had been a slight mistake somewhere.
Down below, the court-yard and the lower hall were full of men. Here there were twenty or thirty, all in the uniform of officers; all men of distinguished air and good-breeding; all gentlemen, and far different from the ragged gang whom they had last encountered here.
In the centre of this company stood a man who at once attracted to himself the eyes of the party of prisoners. He was of medium size, with heavy black mustache and dark, penetrating eyes. He had the air of one who had always been accustomed to the respectful obedience of others; an air of command which rested well upon his bold and resolute face. It was the face of one who lived in the consciousness that he was the centre and strength and hope of a gallant party; of one who believed himself to hold a divine commission to regenerate a fallen country; of one who knew that he alone in all the world held up aloft at the head of an army the proud banner of Conservatism; of one who, for this mission, had given up ease and luxury and self-indulgence; had entered upon a life of danger, hardship, and ceaseless toil, and every day lived in the very presence of Death; in short, they saw before them the idol of the Spanish Legitimists—the high-souled, the chivalrous Don Carlos.
The quick, penetrating glance which he threw upon the party soon faded away into a pleasant smile.
"Welcome, ladies!" said he; "welcome, gentlemen! Some one spoke of a party of prisoners; I had no hope of such good fortune as to meet with guests. But you must have met with some misfortune, in which case let me help you."
He spoke in Spanish, of course—a language which is usually spoken in Spain; and a very pretty language it is, too, and one which I should advise all my readers to learn; for they would find it uncommonly useful in case they should ever find themselves in a castle in Spain.
It was Harry who replied. He told the whole story as far as it was known to himself, dwelling especially upon the character and actions of that strange being who had played the rôle of monarch. Harry's light and playful nature threw a tinge of comicality around the whole story, which was highly appreciated by all his hearers. And so it was that a smile began to go round, until at length it deepened and developed into laughter, and so went on deepening and broadening and intensifying, until at last the laughter grew, if not Homeric, at least loud enough and long enough for a castle in Spain.
"It's the Irishman!" cried Don Carlos—"it's the Irish guerilla! It's O'Toole! The villain! he shall hang for this!"
Harry was too good-natured to feel revengeful, and was just beginning to beg for O'Toole's life, when suddenly there arose behind them the sound of hurried footsteps, followed by wild cries. All turned, and a strange figure met their eyes.
It was a woman. She wore a military cloak and an officer's kepi. She looked wildly around.
"Where is he? Where is my own one?" she cried—"'His Majesty?' Where is the hope of Spain?"
Russell saw her.
He threw out wide his manly arms—he opened his mouth: "Jewlia-r-r-r-r-r-r!"
With a long, loud cry he shouted this name, and rushed toward her.
Mrs. Russell saw him coming—her lost, lamented lord! the one whom she had mourned as dead! Was this his ghost? or was he indeed alive? In any case, the shock was awful for a woman of delicate nerves; and Mrs. Russell prided herself on being a woman of very delicate nerves.
So she did what a woman of delicate nerves ought to do—she gave a loud, long, piercing shriek, and fainted dead away in her fond husband's arms.
Don Carlos gave a grin, and then pulled at his mustache.
"Another victim," said he to the laughing company. "Oh yes; O'Toole shall certainly swing for this. Discipline must and shall be maintained. Send out and catch the fellow. Have him up here at once."
They sent out and they hunted everywhere, but nowhere could they discover any traces of the brilliant, the festive, the imaginative, the mimetic, the ingenious O'Toole. He was never seen again.
Some say that in the dead of night two figures might have been seen slowly wending their way up the path toward the tower; that the one looked like O'Toole and the other looked like Rita. It may have been so; many things are possible in this evil world; and if so, we must suppose that these two gradually faded away among the mists of cloud-land that always surround a castle in Spain.