A Castle in Spain: A Novel

by James De Mille

CHAPTER XIII. — BROOKE AND TALBOT MAKE SEVERAL NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

For some time the two fugitives remained motionless and listened. There seemed to be a large number of men below, of whom a few were inside the mill, but the greater part remained outside. These kept up an incessant jabber; but it was of a discordant character, some talking about getting ready a supper, some about making a fire, some about forage, while at times a word would be dropped which seemed to indicate that they were in pursuit of fugitives. Nothing more definite than this could be learned.

Brooke, however, had been gradually creeping to one side of the mill, where there was a window, while Talbot followed as noiselessly as possible, until they both were able from their concealment to look out upon the scene below, which was in no way calculated to reassure them. They saw a crowd of men, about a hundred in number, who looked very much to Brooke like the train-stoppers of the day before. Their arms were piled, and they themselves were dispersed about, engaged in various occupations; some eating, some drinking, some smoking, while from them all a confused hubbub arose.

Half a dozen ill-looking fellows came toward the door of the mill.

"A fire!" said one. "Let's burn down the old mill. There's wood enough in it."

"Ay," said another, "wood enough for a hundred fires."

A shout of applause greeted this proposal, but the hearers above felt their hearts quail with horror. Talbot laid her hand on Brooke's arm. Brooke, to reassure her, took her hand in his and pressed it gently, and felt it cold and tremulous. He drew her nearer to him, and whispered softly in her ear,

"Don't be alarmed. At the worst, we can give ourselves up. Trust to me."

Talbot drew a long breath, and made a desperate effort to master her fears; but the scene below grew more and more terrible. The wild shout of approbation which followed the proposal to bum the mill was caught up by one after another, till at last the whole band was filled with that one idea. A dozen men rushed inside, and began to hammer, and tear, and pull at the flooring and other parts of the wood-work, while others busied themselves with preparing splints with which to kindle the fire.

"Brooke," whispered Talbot, in a tremulous voice—"oh, Brooke, let us go down."

"Wait—not yet," said Brooke, on whose brow cold drops of perspiration were already standing. "Wait. Let us see what they will do."

Talbot drew back with a shudder.

"The mill is of stone," said Brooke. "They can't burn it."

"But all the inside is of wood," said Talbot—"the floors, the doors, the machinery, the beams."

Brooke was silent, and watched the preparations outside. These grew more and more menacing. A great pile of wood was soon collected, which grew rapidly to more formidable proportions. If these prisoners hoped for life, they must leave their present hiding-place, and soon, too; for soon—ah, too soon, if that pile were once kindled—the flames would pour in, and burn all the inner wood-work, even if the walls were of stone.

At this moment a man came hurrying forward and burst in among the crowd.

"What's the meaning of all this nonsense?" he asked, in a stern voice.

"Why, we're burning the mill," said one of the most active of the party.

"Fools!" cried the other, "are you mad? It will attract attention. We shall be seen—perhaps attacked."

"Pooh!" said the man, impudently, "what of that? That's all the better."

The other laid his hand upon his sword, and looked as though he was about to use it; but a wild outcry burst forth from all the crowd, and with an impatient gesture he turned away. By his dress, which was the only uniform visible, and also by his bearing, he seemed to be the captain of the band, yet his authority did not seem to receive any very strong recognition. Still, the sight of this uniform was of itself encouraging to Brooke, who now at once decided upon the course which he should adopt. There was no longer time to hesitate. Already the match was struck, the next moment the flame would be touched to the kindling, and the fires would blaze up.

So Brooke called in a loud voice,

"Stop! stop! till we come down!"

At this cry they all looked up in amazement. The match dropped from the hand of the man who held it, and several of the men sprang to their arms.

"Who goes there?" cried the one who seemed to be the captain.

"Friends," said Brooke; "we'll come down."

Then turning to Talbot, he whispered:

"Now, Talbot, is the time to show the stuff you're made of. Courage, my boy! courage! Remember, Talbot, you're not a girl now—not a weak girl, but you're a boy—and an English boy! Remember that, my lad, for now your life and mine too depend upon you!"

"Don't fear for me," said Talbot, firmly.

"Good!" said Brooke. "Now follow me, and be as cool as a clock, even if you feel the muzzle of a pistol against your forehead."

With these cheerful words Brooke descended and Talbot followed. The ladder had not been removed, for the simple reason that it consisted of slats nailed against two of the principal beams, too solid even for Samson himself to shake. On reaching the lower story they hurried out at once, and the gang stood collected together awaiting them—a grim and grisly throng. Among them, the man whom Brooke had taken for their captain was now their spokesman.

"Who are you?" he asked, rudely, after a hasty glance at each.

Brooke could not now adopt the tone which had been so effective in the morning, for his gown was off, and he could no longer be the Curé of Santa Cruz. He kept his coolness, however, and answered in an off-hand manner.

"Oh, it's all right; we're friends. I'll show you our papers."

"All right?" said the other, with a laugh. "That's good too!"

At this all the crowd around laughed jeeringly.

"I belong to the good cause," said Brooke. "I'm a loyal subject of His Majesty. Viva el Rey!"

He expected some response to this loyal sentiment, but the actual result was simply appalling. The captain looked at him, and then at Talbot, with a cruel stare.

"Ah!" said he. "I thought so. Boys," he continued, turning to his men, "we're in luck. We'll get something out of these devils. They're part of the band. They can put us on the track."

This remark was greeted with a shout of applause.

"Allow me to inform you, señor," said the captain to the unfortunate Brooke, "that you have made a slight mistake. You are not our friends, but our enemies. We are not Carlists, but Republicans. I am Captain Lopez, of the Fourteenth Regiment, and have been detailed with these brave fellows on a special mission. You are able to give us useful information; but if you refuse to give it you shall both be shot."

In spite of the terrible mistake which he had made, Brooke kept his coolness and his presence of mind admirably.

"I'm very glad to hear it," said he to Lopez. "The fact is, I thought
you were Carlists, and so I said that I was one too—as any one would
do. But I'm not a Carlist; I'm a Republican."

Lopez, at this, gave utterance to a derisive laugh.

"Oh yes," he said, "of course, you are anything we please. And if we should turn out, after all, to be Carlists, you would swear that you are a Carlist again. Doesn't it strike you, señor, that you are trifling with us?"

"I assure you, Captain Lopez," said Brooke, "that I'm not a Carlist, for I'm not a Spaniard."

"You may not be a Spaniard, yet still be a devoted Carlist."

"Yes, but I'm not. I assure you that I'm a Republican. Shall I prove it to you and to all these gentlemen?"

"Try it," sneered Lopez.

"I'm an American," said Brooke.

"An American," repeated Lopez, bitterly. "Better for you to be a Carlist than that. Is it not enough for you Americans to intermeddle with our affairs in Cuba, and help our rebels there, but must you also come to help our rebels here? But come—what is your business here? Let's see what new pretence you have to offer."

"I am a traveller."

"Yes, I suppose so," sneered Lopez. "And who is this other?"

"He is a young priest."

"A young priest? Ah! Then, señor, let me inform you that as Spaniards we hate all Americans, and as Republicans we hate all priests. Spain has had too much of both. Americans are her worst enemies outside and priests inside. Down with all Americans and priests!"

The echo to this sentiment came in a shout from all the followers of Lopez,

"Down with all Americans and priests!"

With this cry a hundred fierce faces surrounded them, and glared at them with fiery eyes. It seemed as though their last hour had come. The crowd pressed closer, and clamored for their immediate destruction. The only thing that held them back was the attitude of Brooke, who stood perfectly cool and tranquil, with his eyes fixed on Lopez, a good-natured smile on his face, and his hands carelessly in his pockets. Close beside him stood Talbot, pale, it is true, but with a calm exterior that showed not one trace of fear. Brooke did not see her, and did not venture to look at her, but he felt that she was as firm as a rock. Had they faltered in the slightest degree, the storm must have burst; but as it was, the calmness of these two disarmed the fury of the mob, and their fierce passion died away.

"Captain Lopez," said Brooke, in a quiet and friendly tone, "you may have reason to hate my country, but I assure you that you have absolutely no cause for complaint against me and my friend. We are simple travellers who have been interrupted on our journey, and are now trying to get to the nearest railway station so as to resume it as soon as possible."

"How did you get here?" asked Lopez, after a pause, in which he again scrutinized severely the two prisoners.

Brooke had anticipated this question, and had made up his mind as to his answer. It was his intention to identify himself with Talbot, and speak as though he had all along been travelling with "the young priest."

"Our train stopped," said he, "and we took the diligence over this road yesterday. We were stopped again, captured and robbed by Carlists, and we have escaped from them, and are now trying to get back."

"Was your train stopped by Carlists?"

"No; the diligence."

"Where did the Carlists go?"

"I have no idea."

"Where did you come from last?"

"Barcelona."

"Where are you going now?"

"To England," said Brooke; "and finally." he added, "allow me to show you this, which I am sure will establish my character in your eyes."

With these words he drew forth a paper and handed it to Lopez. The latter took it, and one of the men lighted a bit of wood which served as a torch, after which Lopez read the following:

"Head-quarters, Vittoria, May 10th. 1873.

"This is to certify that the bearer of this is an American citizen named Raleigh Brooke, and is correspondent of a New York journal. He has permission to traverse our lines in pursuit of his business. CONCHA."

Lopez read it over a second time.

"A newspaper correspondent!" said he. "H'm! That means a spy." He handed it back again to Brooke, who replaced it in his pocket. "I'll think it over," continued Lopez. "I'll examine you both to-morrow and inspect your papers. I'm too tired now. You may both go inside again where you were hiding before. We won't burn you up."

At these last words the whole gang burst into a jeering laugh that foreboded something so horrible that the stout heart of Brooke quailed within him, as, followed by Talbot, he once more entered the old mill.

---