"A letter has come from the captain of the guarda costa, stating that the son of Donna Dominga, his lieutenant, had been killed by a shot from the garrison of Gibraltar," said Slingsby, in a rapid whisper. "The absence of the captain general at Jaen prevented the Sevillanos from learning that the person slain was a townsman. I find we are in a mess here, and think we had better be off, my boy."
Though Spain had a post-office in those days when James III. of Scotland was fighting the battles of the people against his traitorous nobility, and when the brutal Henry of England was murdering his wives and burning Catholics and Protestants together at Smithfield, she has so far receded in the arts of peace that this unfortunate letter had been all these many weeks in finding its way from the sea port of Malaga to Seville.
Don Joaquim now said something to Paulina, who turned upon us with eyes full of grief and dismay.
"'T is my brother Hernan you have slain," she exclaimed, in tones that went through me like a sword; "O madre mia, madre mia! they have murdered our dear, dear Hernan!" and she threw herself beside her mother.
"Yes, señores," said Don Joaquim, folding up the letter with an air of sombre ferocity; "her accusation is right, you have heard her; 't is my brother Don Hernan who was killed by your accursed shot from the mole fort of Gibraltar,—Hernan, lieutenant of the guarda costa, and this letter is from his captain, detailing the circumstances of that outrage on the Spanish flag—an outrage of which I have heard so much since I left Portugal; but which I little thought—O Dios Mio! how little indeed, that it would bring such sorrow to my own house, and to hearts to me so dear. My poor boy brother, Hernan! So, señores, you it is, who were the perpetrators of this foul act? Fit men you were, and proper too, to detail it to our blockhead of a captain general, who was worshipping an old rag at Jaen, when he should have been seeking vengeance at Madrid. But look ye, señores, I'll have it, sure and deep, and as certainly as there is a saint in heaven, sure as my name is Joaquim de Lucena of the regiment of Lagos!"
"Mueran los gabachos—death to the miscreants!" growled a number of voices, and I laid a hand on my sword. It was a natural impulse.
The ladies clustered like a brood of terrified doves round Donna Dominga and her daughter; the gentlemen drew round her son; Slingsby and I were left together in the middle of the large saloon.
"A pleasant predicament this!" said Jack, shrugging his shoulders: "Ramble, I think we had better retire."
"To remain is useless, for these people are alike past listening to explanation or apology," I replied; and with an emotion of mortification and sorrow, which the reader may easily imagine, we took up our swords, made a profound bow to this ungracious company (none of whom responded), and quitted the house.
"Awful business this," said Jack, "is it not, Dick Ramble?—speak—have you lost your tongue?"