We stood in the shadow of the trees by the road-side, bitterly considering the matter; but we could think of nothing to serve, save to wait until the country carts came in at sunrise, and pass in their train, if, indeed, it were the custom of this country for carts to come in. So we stayed, shivering in the heavy dew, until we were aware of footsteps drawing near along the road, and three men came walking softly. We followed them, keeping hidden, into the very shadow of the wall, where the sentry stood or paced before the gate. Voices spoke low in Spanish, there were a sudden stamping and a sound of hard breathing as of men struggling together, and three men came back along the road, closed about a fourth—the sentry, by the glimmer of his steel cap. Now more and yet more men appeared softly out of the dark, talking low together; and their words were English. Without more ado, we joined ourselves to them, unnoticed in the dark, and immediately recognized the men of the Wheel of Fortune. The redoubtable Murch was not there; we looked in vain for his head and shoulders looming above the rest. The whole body of some thirty men moved forward, and it was the sentry (I knew he had a pistol at his ear and a knife in the small of his back) who gave the countersign, and brought us under the deep arch of the gateway into Porto-Bello town. Not to excite suspicion, we broke up into groups of two or three, following each other at intervals of twenty paces or so; and in this manner we traversed the principal street, which was lighted by lamps here and there, turned to the right hand, and ascended dark and narrow ways until we gathered about a door in a high wall. Within, the garden was lighted as for a festival; the leaves of the trees above the wall glimmered gold; there was a noise of music and a gay sound of many voices.
“There’s victuals going inside,” says Brandon, hoarsely, in my ear. “In we go, whoever stays out.” And we edged through the crowd towards the door.
“You know your orders,” said one, and lo! it was the voice of Morgan Leroux. Brandon started back, but I took him firmly by the arm. I was hungry. “You two come with me,” went on Morgan.
“That we will,” said I, at her elbow. She turned as though she had been stung, and scanned us sharply.
“’Twas you I meant,” said she, with wonderful readiness. “Crowby and Harper, fall back.” And she knocked upon the door with the handle of her walking-cane.
The door was opened at once by a servant in livery, to whom Morgan spoke in Spanish. In the light of the garden we perceived that Mistress Morgan was dressed like a great gentleman, in lace and velvet and silk. Lamps of many colours gleamed and shone among the trees; within the house fiddles were going to a merry measure, and we could see the flitting figures of the dancers through the lighted windows. Many ladies and gentlemen moved in the garden, passing from shadow to shine with a gleam of finery and sparkle of jewels. There we stood, a crowd of lackeys and negroes staring upon this pair of scarecrows with matted hair, unshaven faces, tattered and miry clothes, while Morgan talked with the man who opened the door. Presently he went away, with an obeisance, and Morgan took us aside and spoke low.
“I have brought a letter for the Governor. I have told the servant you brought it to me through the forest; this will account for your state; he will bring you food. Eat and drink, and wait here by the door; if you hear me call, open the door and bring in the crew. But there is little danger. If you must speak, speak French—not a word of English, mind!”
Here, one with a silver wand came up, and Morgan went away with him—into the Governor’s presence, it was to be supposed. They brought us food and wine, and we ate and drank, sitting with our backs against the wall, hard by the door. We could hear the men on the other side talking low among themselves, while in front of us the festival went forward like a scene in a playhouse. But, before very long the music stopped, the assembly in the garden streamed within-doors, there was a great noise of talking, and presently the company began to depart in haste. They all passed close to us, as we sat by the door—fine ladies, hooded and cloaked, bearded Spanish gentlemen, some wearing swords, some without, some dressed in full uniform, some habited like merchants; the rout huddled past us in a hurry and out into the road, and before we had finished the jug of wine the garden was deserted, the house fallen silent, its lighted windows empty, and we were alone. Pomfrett was asleep by this time; and as for me, I thought I was asleep too, and dreaming. In my dream it seemed that Morgan Leroux came out of the house and called the crew within, and disposed them as sentries about the house; that two of them carried Pomfrett into the house and laid him upon a bed in a high, dark chamber smelling of cedar, while some draggled remains of one who was formerly known as Henry Winter, but who must on no account be confused with the real owner of that respectable name, staggered in to sink into a heap on the floor; that Morgan Leroux held a taper to the dazzled eyes of the said heap, which was then hove bodily upon a soft bed. Here the dream ended.
X
Dux Femina Fecit
A thundering of cannon, clanging of bells, and calling of trumpets fetched me broad awake. Pomfrett, slumbering on the great bed, never moved. I let him lie, and ran out to the verandah. There was Morgan Leroux, sound asleep in a chair. Sleep is a tell-tale; some quality of nature, hidden by day, looks stealthily forth from the unconscious face. Morgan’s beauty had in a measure departed from her. The features had relapsed into something of grossness: the nostril coarsened, the mouth relaxed, the skin flushed a dull red. The spiritual had evaporated; the animal was apparent. Yet it was no bad animal that lay supine, I thought, but an honest creature of courage and tenacity—and something more. But what that something was I could not decipher. Morgan Leroux opened her eyes, and her face changed into its living semblance, as her hands moved mechanically about the disarray of her man’s attire.