"Ah! Señor Cavalier," said the huesped, who had witnessed the whole scene, "you are a foreigner, it is true, but you did not come into the country yesterday."
I pretended not to comprehend the compliment he had paid me, and threw a last glance at the poor Biscayan. His face wore that aspect of serenity and peace which often appears on men who have died a violent death. A quiet smile played upon his lips. Though only commenced a few days before, the short connection I had had with Don Jaime was now closed. As regards the mysterious link which bound me to Don Tomas, that was not broken for some time afterward.
A year had passed since the death of the Biscayan. I had quitted Mexico. Besides the promise I had given Don Jaime, a less romantic motive, one quite personal, led me into Spain. The embers of the civil war were then fast dying out. The diligences which plied between Bayonne and Madrid, and the towns between those cities, had stopped running in consequence of the Carlist bands which infested the Basque frontier. I reached Bilboa, and it was only at great expense that I could procure a pair of horses and a guide. This man, who was to leave me at Vergara, from whence I could reach St. Sebastian, had himself served in the Carlist ranks. From Bilboa to Vergara is almost thirty miles. Throughout this wide extent of country, the people in the villages, fearing invasion, had emigrated in bands, and the road, dangerous even at its best, would have appeared very long without the stories of my guide. We arrived at Vergara at nightfall; the townsmen were fast deserting it. A Carlist band had announced its arrival. My guide could go no farther, his pass not permitting him to leave the town. A league farther on the horses would be seized and himself arrested.
"I must leave you," he said, "but I am very sorry for it. I know my old comrades well; and may the holy Virgin keep you from falling into their hands."
"My nationality protects me," I exclaimed; "I fear neither Carlist nor Christino."
"Your being a Frenchman will not avail you, for—for—for—" The good man, hesitating for a while, added, "For you will probably be hung offhand."
This did not startle me much; I knew, if my life were in peril, I should find a secure retreat in the house of the mother of poor Don Jaime, who had once been a Carlist officer. The mountaineer, who could not account for my coolness, shook me by the hand and said,
"You are a brave fellow, by heavens! and I hope they will shoot rather than hang you."
The ex-Carlist quitted me. I left my valise at an inn, and, after learning the direction of the castle of Tronera, a place which every body seemed to know, set out on foot. It was about three quarters of a mile from the town. The castle of Villalobos, as I expected, was a gloomy enough place, and the wind was whistling in the angles of the crumbling turrets with a noise which sounded to me like the drums of a Carlist band. Flocks of swallows were darting in and out of some apertures in the loose tiles on the roof. The shutters were all closed; some scaffolding, however, raised at different parts of the building, showed that repairs had been begun, but had been interrupted. The castle seemed deserted. I knocked at the door. Some seconds elapsed, and a woman, clad in black, appeared. I desired her to announce to her mistress that a stranger had arrived from America, and was the bearer of some important news.
"Alas!" replied the woman, "the poor lady died six months ago, and I am looking for her son every day."