‘But Estella must not take this risk,’ exclaimed Julia. ‘Let me do it.’
And some woman’s instinct sent her to Estella’s side—two women alone in that great house amid this man’s work, this strife of reckless politicians.
‘And you, and Señor Conyngham,’ she cried, ‘you must not run this great risk.’
‘It is what we are paid for, my dear Julia,’ answered the General, holding out his arm and indicating the gold stripes upon it.
He walked to the window and opened the massive shutters, which swung back heavily. Then he stepped out on to the balcony without fear or hesitation.
‘See,’ he said, ‘the square is full of them.’
He came back into the room, and Conyngham, standing beside him, looked down into the moonlit Plaza. The square was, indeed, thronged with dark and silent shadows, while others, stealing from the doorways and narrow alleys with which Toledo abounds, joined the groups with stealthy steps. No one spoke, though the sound of their whispering arose in the still night air like the murmur of a breeze through reeds. A hundred faces peered upwards through the darkness at the two intrepid figures on the balcony.
‘And these are Spaniards, my dear Conyngham,’ whispered the General. ‘A hundred of them against one woman. Name of God! I blush for them.’
The throng increased every moment, and withal the silence never lifted, but brooded breathlessly over the ancient town. Instead of living men, these might well have been the shades of the countless and forgotten dead who had come to a violent end in the streets of a city where Peace has never found a home since the days of Nebuchadnezzar. Vincente came back into the room, leaving shutter and window open.
‘They cannot see in,’ he said, ‘the building is too high. And across the Plaza there is nothing but the Cathedral, which has no windows accessible without ladders.’