A Castle in Spain. James De Mille

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ are you?" he asked, fiercely.

      The priest in return eyed the Carlist from head to foot, and then said, in a sharp, authoritative tone,

      "Your name and rank?"

      At this singular rejoinder to his question the Carlist chief looked somewhat amazed.

      "My name?" said he, with a sneer. "Never mind what it is. What are you? Who are you? What the devil do you mean by coming here?"

      "Give your name and rank," persisted the priest, in the same tone as before, "and beware how you trifle with one who may be your master. Who gave you authority to occupy this post?"

      "Master?—authority?" cried the Carlist chief, with an oath, which was followed by a laugh. "Who is my master? I never saw him. Here, you fellows!" he cried, to some of his gang who stood near, "take this fellow off—take him inside. Let me see—take him to the lower dungeons, and let him see who is master here!"

      At this a score of stout ruffians came forward to obey the order. But the priest remained as cool as before. He simply drew forth a paper, and looking round upon the ruffians, he said, in a quiet voice,

      "Keep back, you fellows, and take care what you do! I'm the Curé of Santa Cruz."

      At that formidable name the whole band stopped short, mute and

      awe-struck; for it was no common name which he had thus announced. It

      was a name which already had been trumpeted over the world, and in

      Spain had gained a baleful renown—a name which belonged to one who

      was known as the right arm of Don Carlos, one who was known as the

      beau ideal of the Spanish character, surpassing all others in

      splendid audacity and merciless cruelty; lavish generosity and

      bitterest hate; magnificent daring and narrowest fanaticism. At once

      chivalrous and cruel, pious and pitiless, brave and bigoted, meek and

      merciless, the Curé of Santa Cruz had embodied in himself all that

      was brightest and darkest in the Spanish character, and his name had

      become a word to conjure by—a word of power like that of Garibaldi

      in Italy, Schamyl in Circassia, or Stonewall Jackson in America. And

       thus when these ruffians heard that name it worked upon them like a

      spell, and they stood still, awe-struck and mute. Even the Carlist

      chief was compelled to own its power, although, perhaps, he would not

      have felt by any means inclined to submit to that potent spell had he

      not seen its effect upon his followers.

      "I don't believe it," he growled.

      "You do believe it," said the priest, fiercely: "you know it. Besides, I hold here the mandate of the King;" and he brandished the paper, shouting at the same time, "Viva el Rey!" at which all the men caught up the same cry and shouted in unison.

      The priest smiled a good-natured, amiable, forgiving smile.

      "After all," said he, in a milder voice, "it is well for you to be cautious. I approve of this rough reception: it is soldierlike. It shows that you are true to the King. But read this. Give me something to eat and drink, and then I will tell you my errand."

      With these words he handed the paper to the Carlist chief, who took it somewhat sulkily, and read as follows:

      "Head-quarters, Vera, August 23d, 1873.

      "To all officers of the army, and to all good and loyal subjects, greeting: Receive and respect our friend and lieutenant the Curé of Santa Cruz, who bears this, and is engaged in a special mission in our service. CARLOS."

      On reading this the Carlist chief drew a long breath, looked around upon his followers, elevated his eyebrows, and finally turned to the priest.

      "What do you want?" he asked, in no very courteous manner.

      "Nothing," said the priest. "Not one single thing from you but—breakfast. Don't be alarmed. I haven't come in here to interfere with you at all. My business is elsewhere. Do you understand me?"

      The priest gave him a glance which was meant to convey more than the words expressed. At this the whole manner of the Carlist chief underwent a change. He at once dropped all his sourness and gloom.

      "Do you mean it?" he asked, eagerly.

      The priest nodded.

      "Certainly."

      "Then," cried the Carlist, "you're right welcome, and I hope you'll not mind what's happened. We have to be cautious, you know, and suspicious."

      "My dear friend, I assure you I shouldn't have troubled you at all, only I'm starving."

      "Then I swear you shall have the best breakfast in all Spain. Come in; come in. Come, in the name of Heaven, and I'll give you a breakfast that will last you for a week."

      With these words the Carlist chief led the way inside, and the priest followed.

      It was the lower story of the central building, or keep, and was constructed, in the most massive manner, out of vast blocks of rough-hewn stone. The apartment was about fifty feet in length, twenty-five in width, and twelve in height. On either side there were openings into chambers or passage-ways. The roof was vaulted, and at the farther end of the apartment there was a stairway constructed of the same cyclopean stones as the rest of the edifice. All the stone-work here visible had the same ponderous character, and seemed formed to last for many centuries to come.

      Around the sides of this lower hall were suspended arms and accoutrements. There were also rude massive benches, upon which were flung rugs and blankets. Here and there were little groups, not only of men, but also of women and children. On the left side there was an enormous chimney, which was large enough for a separate chamber. In this a fire was burning, and a woman was attending to the cooking of a savory stew. An aromatic smell of coffee was diffusing itself through the atmosphere; and this was surrounded and intermingled with the stronger and ranker, though less pungent, odors of the stew aforesaid.

      The priest flung himself carelessly into a seat near a massive oaken table, and the Carlist chief took a seat beside him. The priest questioned the chief very closely as to his doings, and the disposition of his people through the country, while the chief surveyed the priest furtively and cautiously.

      At last he said, abruptly,

      "You were on the train yesterday."

      "I was," replied the priest, coolly.

      "Why did you not tell me who you were?"

      "What a question to ask!" said the priest. "Don't you understand? When I am out I don't want any one to know or suspect. I did not choose to tell even you. СКАЧАТЬ