Chapter Forty Seven.
Over the Cliff.
For some time after their arrival at the old monastery, neither Kearney nor Cris Rock saw aught of their late “fourth fellow” prisoner—the hunchback. They cared not to inquire after him; the Texan repeating himself by saying,—“This chile don’t want ever to sit eyes on his ugly pictur agin.” They supposed that he was still there, however, somewhere about the building.
And so was he, with a chain attached to his leg, the same he had shared with Rock, its severed end now padlocked to a ring bolt; and the apartment he occupied had as much of the prison aspect as any cell in the Acordada. No doubt, in days gone by, many a refractory brother had pined and done penance therein for breach of monastic discipline.
Why the mis-shapen creature was so kept needs little explanation; for the same reason as prompted to bringing him thither. Helpless as he might appear, he was not harmless; and Don Ruperto knew that to restore him to liberty would be to risk losing his own, with something more. Though safely bestowed, however, no severity was shown him. He had his meals regularly, and a bed to sleep on, if but a pallet, quite as good as he had been accustomed to. Moreover, after some time had elapsed, he was relieved from this close confinement during the hours of the day. A clever actor, and having a tongue that could “wheedle with the devil,” he had wheedled with the mayor-domo to granting him certain indulgences; among them being allowed to spend part of his time in the kitchen and scullery. Not in idleness, however, but occupied with work for which he had proved himself well qualified. It was found that he had once been “boots” in a posado, which fitted him for usefulness in many ways.
In the cocina of the old convent his temper was sorely tried, the other “mozos” making cruel sport of him. But he bore it with a meekness very different to what he had shown while in the Acordada.
Thus acquitting himself, Gregorio, who had him in special charge, began to regard him as a useful if not ornamental addition to his domestic staff of the establishment. Notwithstanding, the precaution was still continued of locking him at night and re-attaching the chain to his ankle. This last was more disagreeable than aught else he had to endure. He could bear the jibes of his fellow-scullions, but that fetter sorely vexed him; as night after night he was accustomed to say to the mayor-domo as he was turning the key in its clasp.
“It’s so uncomfortable, Señor Don Gregorio,” was his constantly recurring formula. “Keeps me from sleeping and’s very troublesome when I want to turn over, as I often do on account of the pains in my poor humped shoulders. Now, why need you put it on? Surely you’re not afraid of me trying to get away? Ha, ha! that would be turning one’s back upon best friends. Cascaras! I fare too well here to think of changing quarters. Above all, going into the Acordada; where I’d have to go sure, if I were to show my face in the city again. Oh no, Señor! you don’t catch me leaving this snug crib, so long’s you allow me to board and bed in it. Only I’d like you to let me off from that nasty thing. It’s cold too; interferes with my comfort generally. Do, good Don Gregorio! For this one night try me without it. And if you’re not satisfied with the result, then put it on ever after, and I won’t complain, I promise you.”
In somewhat similar forms he had made appeals for many nights in succession, but without melting the heart of the “Good Don Gregorio.”
At length, however, it proved effectual. Among various other avocations he had been a Zapartero, of the class cobbler, and on a certain day did service to the mayor-domo by mending his shoes. For which he received payment in the permission to pass that night without being discommoded by the chain.
“It’s so very kind of you, Don Gregorio!” he said, when made aware of the grace to be given to him. “I ought to sleep sound this night, anyhow. But whether I do or not, I shall pray for you before going to bed all the same. Buenas noches!”
It was twilight outside, but almost total darkness within the cell, as the mayor-domo turned to go out of it. Otherwise he might have seen on the dwarfs features an expression calculated to make him repent his act of kindness, and instantly undo it. Could he have divined the thoughts at that moment passing through Zorillo’s mind, the clasp would have quickly closed around the latter’s leg, despite all gratitude due to him for the patching of the shoes.
“If I can get out,” he commenced in mental soliloquy, as the footfall of the mayor-domo died away in the distant corridor, “out and away from them, my fortune’s made; all sorts of good things in store for me. From this time forth I needn’t fear to present myself at the door of the Acordada; walk right into it. No danger of Don Pedro keeping me there now. Instead, I should be sent out again with a free pardon and a full purse. Chingara, talk of a cat in the cupboard, here are a score of them—half a hundred! And when I let them out—aha!”
He paused; then rising to his feet, moved across to the door, and laid his ear against it to listen. He heard sounds, but they were sounds of merriment—the counterfeit monks at their evening meal—and did not concern him.
“What a bit of luck it may turn out, after all, my getting coupled to that great brute and brought here! That is, if all goes well, and I can give them the slip. First, to make sure about the possibility of getting out of this hole. Carrai! I may be counting my chickens in the eggs.”
Leaving the door, he glided across to the window, and set himself square against it, as if to measure its breadth by that of his own body. It was but a slit, unglazed, a single iron bar, placed vertically, dividing the aperture into two. Without removing this he could not possibly pass through. But he had the means to remove it; that file, already known to the reader, which he had contrived to get possession of, and for days kept secret in his cell. First, however, he must see whether it was worth while using it; for during all the time of his being there he had never been allowed an opportunity to approach the window and look out.
Leaning forward into the recess, he thrust his head between the bar and jamb, so far out as to give him a view of the ground below. This was solid rock, the crest of a steep slope, from which the wall rose as above a buttress. But there was a ledge, some ten or twelve feet under the sill, narrow, but wide enough to afford footing, which led off to more level ground. How was he to reach it?
He knew, or he would not have acted as he now did. For without spending another second in the survey, he drew back from the window, plunged his hand under his bed mat, drew forth the file, and commenced rasping away at the bar. Not noisily or in any excited haste. Even if the obstacle were removed, the time had not come for his attempt to pass out. He would wait for an hour after midnight, when all had gone to their beds.
Eaten with rust, the iron was easily sawed through, a clean cut being made near its lower end. Then, laying aside the file, and grasping the bar, he wrenched it out of the solderings. If diminutive in body, his arms were sinewy and strong as those of a coal-heaver.
This task accomplished, he turned to his pallet and taking up the old blanket allowed him for a covering, began to tear it into strips. He meant to make a rope of it to lower himself down outside. But finding it quite rotten, and doubting whether it would bear his weight, he desisted and sat for a time considering. Not long till he bethought himself of something more suitable for his purpose—the chain.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, tossing aside the rags he had commenced splicing together, “why didn’t I think of that? Well, it’s not too late yet. Good three yards—long enough. And the stupid has left the key behind, which fits both ends. So, Mr Chain, considering the world of worry and trouble you’ve been to me, it’s time, and only fair, you should do me a good turn by way of recompense. After you’ve done it, I’ll forgive you.”
While muttering this quaint apostrophe, he commenced groping about over the floor—not for the chain, but the key, which he knew Gregorio had left, after releasing his leg from the clasp. The mayor-domo had either forgotten, or did not think it was worth while taking it away.
Having found it, he felt his way to the ring bolt, and unlocking the clasp at that end, returned to the window, taking the chain with him. Having made one end fast around the stump of the bar, he lowered the other down outside, cautiously, without a tinkle of its links. And now again looking out and below, he was delighted to see that it reached within a foot or two of the ledge. All this done, he once more sat down on the side of the bed, to await the hour of midnight.
But he was not long quiescent, when a thought occurring caused him to resume action.
“Why not try it now?” he mentally interrogated. “They’re all in the Refectory, having a fine time of it, drinking their famous wines. Some grand occasion, I heard one of the mozos say. There mightn’t be a better chance for me than this very minute—maybe not so good. Carramba! I’ll risk it now.”
Quickly at the words he glided back to the window, climbed up into it, and squeezing out through the aperture, let himself down on the chain, link by link, as a monkey making descent of a lliana in the forests of the tierra caliente.
Soon as he found himself safe landed he let go the chain, and after a minute or so spent in silent reconnaissance of the ledge, commenced moving off along it.
Right he was in choosing that early hour, for the way he must needs take led out into the open ground, in front of the building, where at a later one a watch would have been stationed. There was none there now, and without stop or challenge he passed on and down.
Though they had never allowed him to go outside the building, he perfectly remembered the path by which he and the others had reached it, on that memorable night after their escape from the chain-gang. He recalled the two steep slopes, one above the other, with a narrow shelf between, on which they encountered the sentinel, who had hailed, “Quien viva?”
Sure to be one there now, and to such hail what answer could he make?
On this he reflected while descending the upper slope. The darkness due to the overshadowing trees made it necessary for him to go slowly, so giving him time. But it did not hinder his keeping to the path. With his long arms like the tentacles of an octopus he was able to direct his course, now and then using them to grasp overhanging branches, or the parasites dependent therefrom. Withal he went cautiously, and so silently, that the sentinel—for sure enough one was there—heard no noise to warn him of an enemy behind. In his monkish garb, he was standing on the outer edge of the shelf rock, his face turned to the valley, which was just beginning to show silvery white under the rays of a rising moon. Perhaps, like Don Ruperto, he was gazing on some spot, a house endeared to him as the home of his childhood; but from which, as the leader of the Free Lances, he had been bereft by the last confiscation. Possibly he was indulging in the hope of its being soon restored to him, but least of all dreaming of danger behind.
It was there, notwithstanding—in fiendish shape and close proximity. A creature squatted like a toad, human withal, saying to himself—
“What wouldn’t I give for a knife with a blade six inches long!”
Then, with a sudden change of thought, seeing the chance to do without the knife, making a dash forward, with the ape-like arms extended, and pushing the sentinel over!
The cry that came from the latter, on feeling the impulse from behind, was stifled as he went whirling to the bottom of the cliff.