The Car of Destiny 41 – Williamson · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The Car of Destiny 41The Fifth Bull; and After
18
Literature · Romance
The Car of Destiny 41
The Fifth Bull; and After
WilliamsonEnglish
Hundreds—thousands, it seemed—of automobiles and carriages were before us; and as the Gloria was stopped by the stopping of others in front, a shout rang up to the sky, from behind the high brown walls of the bull-ring. It was the welcome which the public gave their King and his bride as they appeared in the royal box.
We were too late to intercept Carmona; for as the royalties had taken their places, he was certain to be already in his, with his fiancée by his side.
Covered with dust, burnt by the sun which had shone hotly since Manzanares, all but spent with fatigue, I leaned back in my seat. For a moment I did not hear what Dick was saying, although I was conscious that he spoke; but suddenly the meaning of his words broke in on my tired brain.
“It’ll be two hours before the King and Queen leave their box and lesser folks can move,” he said. “I’m not going to have you sitting here in the heat and dust.”
“I must wait till they come out,” I answered dully. “It’s the only way.”
“No, it isn’t. I told you Pilar’d sent me a ticket. The card says ‘sombra,’ so the seat’s in the shade all right, and you’re going to have it.”
“But you?” I said. “Pilar would never forgive me—”
“She’d never forgive me if I didn’t hand it over to you. But I’ll get in somehow. It can cost me fifty dollars if it likes to slip past a policeman, but I guess the price won’t stop me. I don’t mind if I stand up in the callijon. I’m tall enough to see all I want, and more; and if a bull jumps over the barrera, as one did at Seville the other day, my legs are long enough to save me.”
Ropes was to stay with the car and wait until we came again. Before that time my fate would be decided. Nothing could keep me from meeting Monica now; and nothing should keep her from me, if she loved me. If not—if after all I had been dreaming, why, she would be the Duchess of Carmona to-morrow.
Under horses’ noses, between backs and bonnets of motors, we edged our way through the dense crowd of vehicles and people massed together on the baking plain outside the bull-ring. The circle which had been cleared for royalty had filled again now, like a sandbank which has caved in upon itself; but the spectacle on the other side of those steep brown walls had begun, and the main entrance was comparatively clear.
Armed with the ticket engraved with the magic words “Corrida Real” over a black and white sketch of a mounted picador, I was allowed to enter. But when I had passed along a corridor and through a door which opened into a crowded tendido, I heard Dick’s voice at my ear. “Only twenty-five dollars after all,” said he, “and I can sit on the steps. Grand! We’re next to Tendido Number 9. I see Pilar; look—close to the end, front row.”
After the silent rooms of the old Moorish house and the little patio with its tinkling fountain, the brilliant light and colour, the confused sounds and movement, the vast size of the bull-ring struck me fiercely between the eyes, bewildering sight and sense.
Seats were valuable in the tendidos for this great day, when almost every place meant a royal favour; but we were late, and instead of moving on to search for my twelve inches of plank or stone, I was thankful to squeeze in close to the entrance. I did not see Colonel O’Donnel, and though I was close to the famous Tendido Number 9 (which must have held every eye till the royalties came), I forgot to look for Pilar in that white-and-rose garden of Spanish loveliness.
The first act of the great royal bull-fight had begun. Twenty glittering, spangled espadas marched with elastic steps into the ring, followed by the yellow-trousered picadors on their sorry horses. The three gala coaches carrying the distinguished amateur picadors and their ducal patrons who graced this marriage feast, still circled picturesquely in the arena, making a pageant of the Middle Ages. The sun blazed on nodding ostrich plumes, gold embroidered hammercloths, dazzling liveries, powdered heads, and splendid horses in quaint harness, rich with gold and jewels. The three Dukes, owners of the coaches, had introduced the cavaliers they patronized to the King-President; the bride-Queen in her white mantilla and flowers of Spanish colours stood bowing in the glass frame of the royal box. Gaily decorated palcos, tendidos, grados, tier upon tier, half in sun, half in shadow, rose above the huge ring like so many terraced flower-beds, dazzling with the gold lace of uniforms and the bright tints of women’s dresses softened by white mantillas. Over all was a fluttering of fans, like thousands of hovering butterflies; and a hum floated up loud as the humming of a million bees, to the blue dome of sky, where English and Spanish flags waved together.
Mechanically my eyes took in the splendid scene, as they searched for Monica; and finding her, for a time saw nothing else.
She was in a box near the royalties, and sat between her mother and the Duchess, with Carmona and some man whom I did not know, behind them. She was in a white dress and white mantilla, with pink and white malmaisons in her hair; and her face was pathetically pale in its frame of falling lace. In her hand was a fan with which to shut out such horrors of the fight as none but Spanish women born and bred dare trust themselves to see. My place was distant and far below; yet my eyes were keen, and it seemed to me that she looked thin and frail, though very beautiful. If for an instant, since Dick broke the news to me, I had doubted the loyalty of her heart, the sight of her sad young face would have driven doubt away. I was more than ever certain that in promising to marry Carmona she thought to save me from punishment threatened by him.
Neither he nor she guessed that I was near. But where did she believe me to be? Perhaps Carmona had said that for her sake he had let me fly danger after stabbing him in the cathedral, by hurrying back to England.
The Duke was leaning forward to speak to her. She did not look up at him, but let her eyes listlessly travel over the vast audience. I thought they lingered on Tendido Number 9, draped with flowered shawls of Andalucía, and crowded with pretty women. Suddenly she blushed, and turned away. I looked where she had looked, and knew what had brought the blood to her cheeks. Pilar, in rose colour, with a white mantilla and the orthodox malmaisons, of pink and crimson, was gazing up at the Carmona box, an imploring expression on her face. Pilar, too, was pale and thin. I realized more and more that nearly six weeks had been struck out of my life.
Each of the three coaches had in its turn stopped under the royal box, while a ducal patron presented his cavalier to the young King and his bride; now, the ring was being cleared as the magnificent amateur picadors mounted their horses, which had been led round by squires in the quaint dress of 1630. One of four dignified alguaziles in black velvet and lace doffed his plumed hat to the King as President of the fight, asking the key of the bull’s cell. Down it flashed, while the music stopped as if awed into silence, and the alguazil spurred his stallion across the arena to fling into the montera of el Buñolero, janitor of the bull cells, the key he had received.
“Vivillo is fifth bull,” I said to myself, repeating Dick’s words; and there, too, was his name on the programme of the fight. Pilar’s favourite had still a little time to draw the breath of life, stamping in the gloom of his narrow toril. Not yet had that untamed neck of his been stung by the rosetted dart flaunting his owner’s colours; and much was to happen in the arena before Vivillo’s brave beauty would call for the clapping of twice thirteen thousand hands.
First, the three noble amateurs, with their long sharp javelins, must each in turn play picador with grace to please a queen-bride, and save his horse’s sides from goring horns. Then, when three bulls had died according to ancient, chivalrous custom (if the cavalier’s skill served), without slaughter of horses, the corrida would go on in ordinary Spanish fashion of to-day, with all its sensational moments and its tragedies, until—Vivillo’s time came.
As for me, I must sit until the leave-taking of the royalties and royal guests should empty also the Carmona box. I wondered, as the first bull rushed into the ring, whether the King and Queen would still be in their places when the door should open for Vivillo, or whether their departure would rob Carmona of the spectacle of his mean revenge. I hoped it would, for I could not bear that he should see the suffering he had inflicted on Pilar for my sake, and revel in it. Still, when he went I must go too; and I felt vaguely that I ought to be near Pilar—my loyal sister Pilar—during the act which would be tragical for her.
As Dick said, there were brilliant moments in the bull-fight; and the amateurs acquitted themselves in a way to deserve the enthusiasm of the crowd. The beautiful young Queen threw a jewel to each torero who finished a bull after the javelins of the cavaliers had done their work; and when the last of the brave trio had bowed himself out of the ring, began that phase of the sport which Spaniards know and love. The blindfolded horses trotted in, ridden by professional picadors with indifferent, sullen faces; and then a stir of excitement ran from tier to tier of the audience, as a breeze blows over a wheat-field. The first part had been but a pretty play; now was coming the real thing, with the best bulls, and the best espadas of Spain.
The bride in her white mantilla looked down at her fan, and counted the gilded ivory sticks, when the first bull charged the first horse. She, the Queen of Spain, must not seem to flinch, though her English eyes had never seen such crimson sights as these. This was the national sport; she must learn to understand that when men yelled, and even women cried “Buena vara!” it was not with joy because a horse’s side was torn, but because a picador had made the perfect thrust. She must seem to love what the people loved, if she wished them to love her; but not far off sat another young girl in white, who had no such compelling obligations.
Monica, warned beforehand perhaps, when she was forced to come, put up her fan whenever a bull rushed towards a horse, and would no doubt have kept it there had not her mother spoken to her more than once, peremptorily. As for Pilar, though she did not lift her fan, she seemed to see nothing, for she sat with her head bowed, only starting and looking up when the horn sounded for a new bull.
At last there was no more question as to whether the King and Queen would stay to see Vivillo play his part. The fourth bull had been dragged away dead by the team of tasselled mules, and the piercing blast, which had grown to sound tragic in my ears, summoned Vivillo, all unknowing, to his fate. And the royalties kept their seats, though the afternoon waned, and shadow—like the creeping shadow of death—darkened two-thirds of the arena.
So keen was my sympathy with Pilar that I felt my throat contract and my mouth go dry. So must it be with her at this moment which called her brave favourite to his death; so, like mine, only faster and more thickly, must her heart be beating.
Could she, after all, bear the ordeal? Would she not turn and hurry out before the first picador drew the blood she had tried so hard to save? But no; she sat still, her eyes large, her face blanched, and one hand twisted in the folds of her lace mantilla as it rose and fell on her breast.
Before the dead was well out of the ring, and his red track sanded, the door of the toril was thrown open for the fifth bull, said never to be a coward. It was a compliment to Carmona and to Vivillo to be chosen for this position on the programme, since it has become a proverb that the pick of the corrida should be fifth on the list. It was also a compliment to Carmona that the King should wait to see how his Vivillo would die.
The buñolero sprang back as he opened the door, retiring more hastily than was his wont into the space between the barriers out of the bull’s way. It was as if he, too, expected the new-comer to be something beyond the ordinary in ferocity or cunning; for Carmona’s bulls, like those of the Muira breed, are famed for their terrible habit of ignoring the cloak and charging at the body of the man who holds it.
Some bulls had rushed into the arena and blindly attacked the first object which came within their dazed vision; but my heart had time to beat twice before that noble form, which I had last seen in peaceful pasture, deigned to show itself at the dark exit of the toril.
It was as if Vivillo wished to prove how he scorned the puny prick of that fish-hook dart hidden by a rosette of green and purple ribbon, supreme indifference to the strange scene which burst upon eyes accustomed for long to darkness, and haughty superiority to thirst and hunger which irritated weaker animals to frenzy. No one, seeing the great bull stand with his head up, questioning, surprised, could have mistaken his attitude for cowardice. There was something ominous, even terrible, in his pause; and it gave the waiting audience time to appreciate the magnificence of his proportions, the length and dagger-keenness of his horns, the rippling of the muscles under the brown satin of his skin, in the great chest and lean flanks.
“This is not a bull,—it is a mountain,” shouted a voice; and other voices praised Vivillo’s perfections, so soon to vanish off the earth. “Grandly armed!” “He would face a battalion!” “Let Fuentes look out for himself!”
For Fuentes, best espada left in Spain, bravest fighter of bulls according to the classic methods, was to give Vivillo the death stroke, when picadores and banderilleros had done with him.
The yells of the vast multitude in an instant changed the bull’s proud astonishment to fury. He seemed to realize that this new world, so different from the old sweet, green one, was a world of enemies, every soul against him, and he was ready to fight them all to the death. He neither pawed the sand nor bellowed, for these are puerile betrayals of temper to which the noblest bulls do not descend. Like a tornado he swept across the ring, killed a horse with a single thrust, sent the picador crashing against the barrera; and quick as a wild cat, strong as an African lion, wheeled to lift another animal and its rider on his horns. Half the length of the arena he trotted, upholding both, whilst the audience rose to him and yelled admiration of his savage strength.
“This is like the good old days. You don’t see such a bull in ten thousand,” men said to each other, as Vivillo flung the dead horse on the sand, tumbling the picador over the barrera into the callijon, and raced off gamely to a third duel.
When he had killed three horses (knowing no distinction between their innocence and man’s cruelty, after his shoulders had felt the lance) he was apparently as fresh as when he left the toril. At this stage of the death drama most bulls would be breathing hard; but though the brown velvet of Vivillo’s neck was stained dark crimson, neither fatigue nor pain made his strong heart labour.
More horses were given him, to die as others had died, all save one, which the bull refused to touch because it was of the colour he knew and was friendly with at home. It was led at last unscathed; but Vivillo had now six horses to his credit, and his popularity with the audience had already risen far beyond that of his predecessors. Still, his activity, instead of diminishing, seemed to grow with the rising fever of his fury.
In ordinary cases the trumpet would now have sounded for the second act, dismissing the picadors and summoning the banderilleros; but Vivillo in his present condition was too formidable a foe to be teased by the bravest with barbed, beribboned darts; and “Caballos—caballos!” was the cry.
Four more sacrificial beasts were brought, and he dealt with all, so nearly goring one picador that an espada, dashing to the rescue, was raced to the barrier, and had his stocking crimsoned as he vaulted over it.
Vivillo’s list of victims had now swelled to ten, and though he had accepted thirty-three varas, or thrusts of the lance, his great shoulders scarcely shuddered under the red rain of his blood. Still, the first act could not be further prolonged. The sharp, cruel blast of the cornet gave the signal for the second to begin.
Dick and I had not spoken, and I dared not look towards Pilar. As the crowd shouted an imperious demand for the great Fuentes to come into the ring as banderillero, it seemed to me that centuries were swept away by their wild voices; that this was not the bull-ring of Madrid, but the Coliseum of Rome.
Vivillo waited, his head up, undaunted; and though his face and attitude were menacing, the brown eyes, set wide apart, were radiantly innocent. He seemed a creature made up of nature’s best, a product of blue sky, sweet meadow, and pure air; of his kind, perfection. Did he think now of his old home in the rich pasture-land, and the tinkle of the friendly cabestros’ bells? If he did, the home-sick thought did not make him fear to face what was to come. Never once had he followed the example of two or three among his predecessors, and turned towards the shut door of the toril as if for refuge. Always he had faced the enemy; and now he rushed to play with his horns for the glittering banderillas which waited for his shoulders.
Fuentes was consenting to the wish of the public, but two ordinary banderilleros were to precede him. The famous matador, who was afterwards to kill this most popular bull of the day, would plant the last pair of the six.
The first man, sparkling in satin and silver, lifted on high his two barb-tipped sticks, gaily ornamented with tinsel paper, and called Vivillo from a distance. His mocking voice infuriated the bull, who rushed upon him; then, as he swayed lightly aside, it was all he could do to save himself from the great animal’s sudden, swift turn, without placing either of his banderillas. Again and again the play was repeated, but the audience were saying that Vivillo was becoming crafty as Shylock. At last one gay-coloured stick—“half a pair”—hung from Vivillo’s shoulders; twice and three times the attempt was made before the “pair” was complete; and the second banderillero succeeded no better. But as Fuentes entered the ring, condescending to play at the game of which he was once master, there went up a roar of applause. Fuentes never failed; and that trick of his—planting both feet on a handkerchief, nor deigning to move save for a swaying of the body while planting the two barbs—was famous, a sight worth seeing when the bull was even half as good as this. But for once even Fuentes’ brilliant tactics were at a loss. Vivillo had brains, and used them. He used his eyes, too, before charging, which not one out of five hundred bulls can do; and if Fuentes played with him, he played also, a game whose zest came from a hint of pressing danger. Once it seemed that Vivillo would be over the barrera, in the callijon, and there was a stampede of all the onlookers there. Again he threatened to demolish the wooden barrier with his horns, and there was a wilder scramble than before. But the banderillas were planted at last, and the blood on Vivillo’s brown shoulders lay like a crimson cloak. The great round of applause was as much for the bull as for the banderillero; and every face in the audience was tense with excitement as the horn sounded for the death scene. With such a king of the arena anything might happen. It was well that a master like Fuentes was the espada who would deal with him, or he might deal with the espada.
And so it was to end in the usual tragedy, and after a few more brilliant moments of play the brave heart of the beast must feel the sword. I had known, of course, that it must be so, and yet until now it had not seemed a cold certainty. Perhaps I had vaguely hoped that Vivillo would vault the barrera, and refuse to be coaxed back again; but, even if he had, he could not have saved himself, and might have had to die some death less glorious than by the espada’s blade.
Fuentes was bowing under the royal box, asking the King-President’s gracious permission to kill Vivillo as so noble a bull should be killed. Then, sword and red muleta in hand, he went to meet Vivillo, an alert look on his face; for this was no common res, but a brave and wary foeman, most worthy of his steel.
The deep silence of the thirteen thousand spectators was as great a compliment as could be paid to man or bull, and Fuentes knew it. He knew that the audience expected such play, before the death stroke, as had not been seen in Spain for years, and he did not mean to disappoint them. Still marvellously fresh, considering his doughty feats and loss of blood, Vivillo showed no distress. But he had become visibly thoughtful, as if realizing at last that this was no wild sport, but the end of all things.
Fuentes waved off his men—“fuera gente,” knowing that this sign of serene courage would thrill thirteen thousand hearts, already warm for him, and adjusted his red muleta to the small, spiked stick which secured it. Then, graceful as a wave which rears its crest to breaking-point, he moved towards the bull, wary yet defiant.
Vivillo, as if to prove the power and fulness of his lungs, bellowed for the first time since he had entered the arena, as he hurled his dark body upon the torero, his huge head down. The muleta met his horns and smothered them, to be swept up and away, while Fuentes stood motionless, smiling. But to the agitation of the audience, instead of following the muleta’s scarlet wave, Vivillo halted with horns lowered to gore, and charged the man.
Lightly Fuentes stepped aside, tempting the bull again with the muleta; but Vivillo would have none of it. Then came such give and take between man’s skill and brute’s ferocious cunning that the audience lost all self-consciousness in watching.
Nearer and nearer Fuentes and Vivillo drew to the barrier. Now they were close to Tendido Number 9, and mechanically I lifted my eyes from the arena to find Pilar. She was no longer to be seen there, and I thought that she had fled before the death. But as Vivillo made a lunge which all but caught Fuentes, a door in the barrier flashed open, flashed shut, and a girl stood in the ring.
It was Pilar in her white dress and lace mantilla. She had left her seat, gone down alone to the entrance of the tendido, had waited her chance, and slipped into the arena. But she could hide no longer. At sight of the girl’s figure, white against the dark red barrier, a wild, warning shout went up. Two or three of Fuentes’ cuadrillo ran towards her, but with a passionate gesture she motioned them off, holding out her arms to the royal box.
“Pardon, pardon for Vivillo, the brave bull!” she cried. And I knew now that this was what she had meant from the first. If Vivillo were brave, if he won the respect of the King and the crowd by supreme strength and courage, she had hoped to save him as other bulls had been saved from time to time, since, in earliest days, Spain had followed Roman customs. I had read of those pardoned bulls and heard of them from my father—one hero, may be, in ten years. For this she had come; for this she had sat watching Vivillo’s blood flow, waiting until he had proved himself so brave that thirteen thousand voices might join hers in asking the bull’s life of the King-President.
At sound of his name, cried in those dear, familiar tones as if calling him from across the valley of death, Vivillo raised his head, turned his back for the first time upon the enemy, and bounded towards the girl. Horrified, the audience shrieked at her, at him, waving their hands, throwing hats into the ring in front of the bull as if to distract him from a helpless victim. But they need not have feared. His sides heaving under their mantle of blood, Vivillo’s rush subsided to a trot, as in the home-pasture far away. Half-blinded with fury as he had been a moment ago, the kind young face and voice loved by him since he was a calf at his mother’s side brought Vivillo back to himself. Hope must have quickened in his heart as he heard that call, which in old days had meant choice food and sweet caresses. It was the call of life, and he answered it with gratitude.
[It was the call of life, and he answered it with gratitude.]
IT WAS THE CALL OF LIFE, AND HE ANSWERED IT WITH GRATITUDE
How the men yelled, and the women laughed and cried as the great bull laid his armed head against the pale girl’s arm! How they clapped when he ate something which she held to him in her hand, and how they shouted to the King—“Pardon—pardon for this brave bull. Pardon for El Vivillo!”
Dick was at her side now. He must have leaped the barrier; but I did not see him until he was there, and the Cherub close behind him. Fuentes was under the royal box, asking if the prayer for the bull’s life were to be heard; and, amid tumultuous cheering, pardon was granted, with the jewel he should have won by giving Vivillo death instead of life. The bull was saved. Panting, he stood by Pilar’s side, his blood staining the creamy whiteness of her mantilla. Even when the tame cabestro came, with tinkling bell, to entice Vivillo away, she could hardly bear to leave him, though she well knew that he was safe; that his wounds would be skilfully tended; that he would be restored to health, and that, in very shame (when the story was made known), Carmona must surrender the bull to her.
But the King and Queen were on their feet bowing to the crowd, their relatives and guests standing behind them. The Queen turned and murmured to the King, who spoke to someone I could not see, and an equerry hurried out of the box. A moment later the Duke of Carmona, his mother, Lady Vale-Avon, and Monica were entering the royal box. Evidently the Queen’s wish had been to make some introduction. All chatted together for a minute, looking down at the ring, which Vivillo was just leaving with the big, brindled cabestro. Probably the King was congratulating Carmona on the bull given by him to the Corrida Real. Then, having bowed once more to their enthusiastic subjects, the royalties prepared to leave the box before the next bull should come into the ring.
I knew that Monica, with Carmona and the others, would follow in the train of the King and Queen, that they would go out at the royal entrance, and that I must be near if I would have my last chance with the girl. But it was a misfortune that she should be with the royalties, because, since the catastrophe of two days ago, the police of Madrid were taking extra precautions for the safety of their sovereign and his bride. The ground outside the royal entrance had been kept clear of the populace when they went in, and would be again when they went out. A haggard, hollow-eyed wretch such as I was now would be instantly suspected and ordered back.
Yet Monica was to be married to-morrow, and then it would be for ever too late. Somehow I must get close enough to speak with her, even if the words I had to say were cut short by a bullet.
Many people were leaving, though more than half the audience remained, and I had to fight my way through a crowd that had not my reasons for haste. Perhaps a look at my face made them give me room, for sooner than I dared hope I was out of the bull-ring, and pushing through the dense pack of people who had assembled to see the royalties and their guests drive away. I had reached the outside rank, when I saw Carmona’s automobile coming into place behind the royal carriages and motor-cars. Someone had been sent to fetch it here from the other entrance; and the Duke of Carmona would be a figure of importance in the eyes of all Madrid.
Civil guards and police were busy keeping the crowd in order, with warning gestures pressing rank upon rank back upon one another.
I made no effort to separate myself from the mass, for neither the King nor Queen nor Carmona had yet come in sight; and I was waiting. But suddenly shouts of “Viva el Rey—Viva la Reina!” broke out and swelled.
They were coming. Now they were at the door. I caught sight of Carmona, exceedingly handsome in the joy of his great triumph. The King paused at the door, and, seeing Carmona near by, flung him a kindly last word, with a smile. Carmona stepped forward, hat in hand. Monica, with her mother and the Duchess, came to a stop close behind.
My moment had come. I sprang out from the crowd, and had taken three steps towards her, when two civil guards had me by the shoulders. At the same instant I heard Dick’s voice, and knew that he had found his way after me, true as always, guessing what I would try to do.
The sudden movement and buzz in the group round me caught Monica’s attention. She looked, and gave a little cry as our eyes met across the sunlit, open space. Out came her hands, and for an instant I thought she would have run to me; but her mother’s quick eyes had identified the man between the civil guards, and she seized Monica by the arm.
“Get back,” said one of the civil guards angrily. “No one is allowed to go nearer to the King.”
“I must speak to those ladies,” I said, shaking one shoulder free.
“Another step, and you’ll spend your night between prison walls,” muttered the guard, furious that there should be a scene under the eyes of royalty.
But now the eyes of royalty were upon me, and there was recognition in them. The King held up his hand imperatively.
“Let that gentleman go,” he said. “He is a friend of mine. Señores, I am glad to see you again. Have you come to congratulate me on my marriage?”
The guards stepped back; and the King’s question was a command. He said “Señores”; therefore he was speaking to Dick as well as to me. I walked towards him as he stood ready to greet us; and now Dick, who had kept behind in the crowd, was at my side.
Carmona’s face grew scarlet, then yellow-pale.
“I beg your Majesty’s forgiveness,” he said, “but you cannot know what I know of this man, or you would not receive him. This may be another horrible plot; for he is the Marqués de Casa Triana, suspected of throwing a bomb in Barcelona some years ago, who not only has broken his parole and come secretly to Spain, but has been following you about from place to place in his motor-car, and—”
The King burst out laughing, in his boyish way.
“All the better for me if he has, since he has continually found the way to do me some good turn. If it hadn’t been for him and his motor-car I’m not sure that I would be here—and happy—to-day.” He held out his hand to me. “So you are the Marqués de Casa Triana,” he said. “And that was why you wouldn’t tell me your name, when your friend let me know I had one more thing to thank you for besides those I knew—on the day of the brigands?”
He smiled at Dick, who presumed on his notice.
“Your Majesty,” he ventured, “may I mention the name of the man who employed those brigands, not to injure you, but one he had already injured—Casa Triana himself? Well, it’s the Duke of Carmona; and when the brigands failed, he tried having Casa Triana knocked on the head and shut up in a house of his at Granada, so that he could marry the girl who was engaged to my friend. You can ask Lady Monica Vale, sir, if I’m not telling you the truth—as far as she knows it.”
The King, without answering, turned his eyes on Monica.
“It is true, sir, that we were engaged,” she replied to the question in his look. “I love him still, and only promised to marry the Duke because he said, if I did, he would save Ramón from imprisonment—and worse. He told me he had helped Ramón to get out of Spain to England, when he was on the point of being arrested for—something that happened in Seville. Now I know it wasn’t true;—that he—lied, and that he’s been horribly treacherous to Ramón, as well as to me. I’ll not keep my promise to him to-morrow, or ever.”
“This seems a strange story,” said the King. “I must hear it at length, later. But you shall not marry against your wish. You shall marry the man you love; we will see to that, whether Carmona can clear himself or not. As for my friend Casa Triana, I owe him a triple debt. Part of it I can repay by giving him certain estates in the South which I believe I’ve been—keeping in trust for him. Part I can never repay; and part—well, if I can give him a bride who loves him, perhaps he will consider himself repaid?”
“I thank your Majesty a thousand times,” I said.
Monica looked at me. She was very pale; but there was heaven in her eyes.
“Viva el Rey!” shouted Dick; and the crowd, though they had not heard or understood what passed, took up the cry with all their hearts—
