Montezuma’s Daughter

by H. Rider Haggard

Contents

DEDICATION

My dear Jebb,

Strange as were the adventures and escapes of Thomas Wingfield, once of thisparish, whereof these pages tell, your own can almost equal them in theselatter days, and, since a fellow feeling makes us kind, you at least they maymove to a sigh of sympathy. Among many a distant land you know that in which heloved and fought, following vengeance and his fate, and by your side I saw itsrelics and its peoples, its volcans and its valleys. You know even where liesthe treasure which, three centuries and more ago, he helped to bury, thecountless treasure that an evil fortune held us back from seeking. Now theIndians have taken back their secret, and though many may search, none willlift the graven stone that seals it, nor shall the light of day shine againupon the golden head of Montezuma. So be it! The wealth which Cortes wept over,and his Spaniards sinned and died for, is for ever hidden yonder by the shoresof the bitter lake whose waters gave up to you that ancient horror, theveritable and sleepless god of Sacrifice, of whom I would not robyou—and, for my part, I do not regret the loss.

What cannot be lost, what to me seem of more worth than the dead heroGuatemoc’s gems and jars of gold, are the memories of true friendshipshown to us far away beneath the shadow of the Slumbering Woman,^[1]and it is in gratitude for these that I ask permission to set your name withina book which were it not for you would never have been written.

I am, my dear Jebb,
Always sincerely yours,
H. RIDER HAGGARD.

DITCHINGHAM, NORFOLK, October5, 1892.
To J. Gladwyn Jebb, Esq.

NOTE

Worn out prematurely by a life of hardship and extraordinary adventure, Mr.Jebb passed away on March 18, 1893, taking with him the respect and affectionof all who had the honour of his friendship. The author has learned withpleasure that the reading of this tale in proof and the fact of its dedicationto himself afforded him some amusement and satisfaction in the intervals of hissufferings.

H. R. H.

March22, 1893.

[1]The volcano Izticcihuatl in Mexico.

NOTE

The more unpronounceable of the Aztec names are shortened in many instances outof consideration for the patience of the reader; thus“Popocatapetl” becomes “Popo,”“Huitzelcoatl” becomes “Huitzel,” &c. The prayer inChapter xxvi. is freely rendered from Jourdanet’s French translation ofFray Bernardino de Sahagun’s History of New Spain, written shortly afterthe conquest of Mexico (Book VI, chap. v.), to which monumental work and toPrescott’s admirable history the author of this romance is much indebted.The portents described as heralding the fall of the Aztec Empire, and many ofthe incidents and events written of in this story, such as the annualpersonation of the god Tezcatlipoca by a captive distinguished for his personalbeauty, and destined to sacrifice, are in the main historical. The noble speechof the Emperor Guatemoc to the Prince of Tacuba uttered while they both weresuffering beneath the hands of the Spaniards is also authentic.

Montezuma’s Daughter

CHAPTER I
WHY THOMAS WINGFIELD TELLS HIS TALE

Now glory be to God who has given us the victory! It is true, the strength ofSpain is shattered, her ships are sunk or fled, the sea has swallowed hersoldiers and her sailors by hundreds and by thousands, and England breathesagain. They came to conquer, to bring us to the torture and the stake—todo to us free Englishmen as Cortes did by the Indians of Anahuac. Our manhoodto the slave bench, our daughters to dishonour, our souls to theloving-kindness of the priest, our wealth to the Emperor and the Pope! God hasanswered them with his winds, Drake has answered them with his guns. They aregone, and with them the glory of Spain.

I, Thomas Wingfield, heard the news to-day on this very Thursday in the Bungaymarket-place, whither I went to gossip and to sell the apples which thesedreadful gales have left me, as they hang upon my trees.

Before there had been rumours of this and of that, but here in Bungay was a mannamed Young, of the Youngs of Yarmouth, who had served in one of the Yarmouthships in the fight at Gravelines, aye and sailed north after the Spaniards tillthey were lost in the Scottish seas.

Little things lead to great, men say, but here great things lead to little, forbecause of these tidings it comes about that I, Thomas Wingfield, of the Lodgeand the parish of Ditchingham in the county of Norfolk, being now of a greatage and having only a short time to live, turn to pen and ink. Ten years ago,namely, in the year 1578, it pleased her Majesty, our gracious Queen Elizabeth,who at that date visited this county, that I should be brought before her atNorwich. There and then, saying that the fame of it had reached her, shecommanded me to give her some particulars of the story of my life, or rather ofthose twenty years, more or less, which I spent among the Indians at that timewhen Cortes conquered their country of Anahuac, which is now known as Mexico.But almost before I could begin my tale, it was time for her to start forCossey to hunt the deer, and she said it was her wish that I should write thestory down that she might read it, and moreover that if it were but half aswonderful as it promised to be, I should end my days as Sir Thomas Wingfield.To this I answered her Majesty that pen and ink were tools I had no skill in,yet I would bear her command in mind. Then I made bold to give her a greatemerald that once had hung upon the breast of Montezuma’s daughter, andof many a princess before her, and at the sight of it her eyes glistenedbrightly as the gem, for this Queen of ours loves such costly playthings.Indeed, had I so desired, I think that I might then and there have struck abargain, and set the stone against a title; but I, who for many years had beenthe prince of a great tribe, had no wish to be a knight. So I kissed the royalhand, and so tightly did it grip the gem within that the knuckle joints shonewhite, and I went my ways, coming back home to this my house by the Waveney onthat same day.

Now the Queen’s wish that I should set down the story of my life remainedin my mind, and for long I have desired to do it before life and story endtogether. The labour, indeed, is great to one unused to such tasks; but whyshould I fear labour who am so near to the holiday of death? I have seen thingsthat no other Englishman has seen, which are worthy to be recorded; my life hasbeen most strange, many a time it has pleased God to preserve it when allseemed lost, and this perchance He has done that the lesson of it might becomeknown to others. For there is a lesson in it and in the things that I haveseen, and it is that no wrong can ever bring about a right, that wrong willbreed wrong at last, and be it in man or people, will fall upon the brain thatthought it and the hand that wrought it.

Look now at the fate of Cortes—that great man whom I have known clothedwith power like a god. Nearly forty years ago, so I have heard, he died poorand disgraced in Spain; he, the conqueror—yes, and I have learned alsothat his son Don Martin has been put to the torture in that city which thefather won with so great cruelties for Spain. Malinche, she whom the Spaniardsnamed Marina, the chief and best beloved of all the women of this same Cortes,foretold it to him in her anguish when after all that had been, after she hadso many times preserved him and his soldiers to look upon the sun, at the lasthe deserted her, giving her in marriage to Don Juan Xaramillo. Look again atthe fate of Marina herself. Because she loved this man Cortes, or Malinche, asthe Indians named him after her, she brought evil on her native land; forwithout her aid Tenoctitlan, or Mexico, as they call it now, had never bowedbeneath the yoke of Spain—yes, she forgot her honour in her passion. Andwhat was her reward, what right came to her of her wrongdoing? This was herreward at last: to be given away in marriage to another and a lesser man whenher beauty waned, as a worn-out beast is sold to a poorer master.

Consider also the fate of those great peoples of the land of Anahuac. They didevil that good might come. They sacrificed the lives of thousands to theirfalse gods, that their wealth might increase, and peace and prosperity betheirs throughout the generations. And now the true God has answered them. Forwealth He has given them desolation, for peace the sword of the Spaniard, forprosperity the rack and the torment and the day of slavery. For this it wasthat they did sacrifice, offering their own children on the altars of Huitzeland of Tezcat.

And the Spaniards themselves, who in the name of mercy have wrought crueltiesgreater than any that were done by the benighted Aztecs, who in the name ofChrist daily violate His law to the uttermost extreme, say shall they prosper,shall their evil-doing bring them welfare? I am old and cannot live to see thequestion answered, though even now it is in the way of answering. Yet I knowthat their wickedness shall fall upon their own heads, and I seem to see them,the proudest of the peoples of the earth, bereft of fame and wealth and honour,a starveling remnant happy in nothing save their past. What Drake began atGravelines God will finish in many another place and time, till at last Spainis of no more account and lies as low as the empire of Montezuma lies to-day.

Thus it is in these great instances of which all the world may know, and thusit is even in the life of so humble a man as I, Thomas Wingfield. Heaven indeedhas been merciful to me, giving me time to repent my sins; yet my sins havebeen visited on my head, on me who took His prerogative of vengeance from thehand of the Most High. It is just, and because it is so I wish to set out thematter of my life’s history that others may learn from it. For many yearsthis has been in my mind, as I have said, though to speak truth it was herMajesty the Queen who first set the seed. But only on this day, when I haveheard for certain of the fate of the Armada, does it begin to grow, and who cansay if ever it will come to flower? For this tidings has stirred me strangely,bringing back my youth and the deeds of love and war and wild adventure which Ihave been mingled in, fighting for my own hand and for Guatemoc and the peopleof the Otomie against these same Spaniards, as they have not been brought backfor many years. Indeed, it seems to me, and this is no rare thing with theaged, as though there in the far past my true life lay, and all the rest werenothing but a dream.

From the window of the room wherein I write I can see the peaceful valley ofthe Waveney. Beyond its stream are the common lands golden with gorse, theruined castle, and the red roofs of Bungay town gathered about the tower of St.Mary’s Church. Yonder far away are the king’s forests of Stowe andthe fields of Flixton Abbey; to the right the steep bank is green with theEarsham oaks, to the left the fast marsh lands spotted with cattle stretch onto Beccles and Lowestoft, while behind me my gardens and orchards rise interraces up the turfy hill that in old days was known as the Earl’sVineyard. All these are about me, and yet in this hour they are as though theywere not. For the valley of the Waveney I see the vale of Tenoctitlan, for theslopes of Stowe the snowy shapes of the volcans Popo and Iztac, for the spireof Earsham and the towers of Ditchingham, of Bungay, and of Beccles, thesoaring pyramids of sacrifice gleaming with the sacred fires, and for thecattle in the meadows the horsemen of Cortes sweeping to war.

It comes back to me; that was life, the rest is but a dream. Once more I feelyoung, and, should I be spared so long, I will set down the story of my youthbefore I am laid in yonder churchyard and lost in the world of dreams. Long agoI had begun it, but it was only on last Christmas Day that my dear wife died,and while she lived I knew that this task was better left undone. Indeed, to befrank, it was thus with my wife: She loved me, I believe, as few men have thefortune to be loved, and there is much in my past that jarred upon this love ofhers, moving her to a jealousy of the dead that was not the less deep becauseit was so gentle and so closely coupled with forgiveness. For she had a secretsorrow that ate her heart away, although she never spoke of it. But one childwas born to us, and this child died in infancy, nor for all her prayers did itplease God to give her another, and indeed remembering the words of Otomie Idid not expect that it would be so. Now she knew well that yonder across theseas I had children whom I loved by another wife, and though they were longdead, must always love unalterably, and this thought wrung her heart. That Ihad been the husband of another woman she could forgive, but that this womanshould have borne me children whose memory was still so dear, she could notforget if she forgave it, she who was childless. Why it was so, being but aman, I cannot say; for who can know all the mystery of a loving woman’sheart? But so it was. Once, indeed, we quarrelled on the matter; it was ouronly quarrel.

It chanced that when we had been married but two years, and our babe was somefew days buried in the churchyard of this parish of Ditchingham, I dreamed avery vivid dream as I slept one night at my wife’s side. I dreamed thatmy dead children, the four of them, for the tallest lad bore in his arms myfirstborn, that infant who died in the great siege, came to me as they hadoften come when I ruled the people of the Otomie in the City of Pines, andtalked with me, giving me flowers and kissing my hands. I looked upon theirstrength and beauty, and was proud at heart, and, in my dream, it seemed asthough some great sorrow had been lifted from my mind; as though these dearones had been lost and now were found again. Ah! what misery is there like tothis misery of dreams, that can thus give us back our dead in mockery, and thendeparting, leave us with a keener woe?

Well, I dreamed on, talking with my children in my sleep and naming them bytheir beloved names, till at length I woke to look on emptiness, and knowingall my sorrow I sobbed aloud. Now it was early morning, and the light of theAugust sun streamed through the window, but I, deeming that my wife slept,still lay in the shadow of my dream as it were, and groaned, murmuring thenames of those whom I might never see again. It chanced, however, that she wasawake, and had overheard those words which I spoke with the dead, while I wasyet asleep and after; and though some of this talk was in the tongue of theOtomie, the most was English, and knowing the names of my children she guessedthe purport of it all. Suddenly she sprang from the bed and stood over me, andthere was such anger in her eyes as I had never seen before nor have seensince, nor did it last long then, for presently indeed it was quenched intears.

“What is it, wife?” I asked astonished.

“It is hard,” she answered, “that I must bear to listen tosuch talk from your lips, husband. Was it not enough that, when all men thoughtyou dead, I wore my youth away faithful to your memory? though how faithful youwere to mine you know best. Did I ever reproach you because you had forgottenme, and wedded a savage woman in a distant land?”

“Never, dear wife, nor had I forgotten you as you know well; but what Iwonder at is that you should grow jealous now when all cause is donewith.”

“Cannot we be jealous of the dead? With the living we may cope, but whocan fight against the love which death has completed, sealing it for ever andmaking it immortal! Still, thatI forgive you, for against this woman Ican hold my own, seeing that you were mine before you became hers, and are mineafter it. But with the children it is otherwise. They are hers and yours alone.I have no part nor lot in them, and whether they be dead or living I know wellyou love them always, and will love them beyond the grave if you may find themthere. Already I grow old, who waited twenty years and more before I was yourwife, and I shall give you no other children. One I gave you, and God took itback lest I should be too happy; yet its name was not on your lips with thosestrange names. My dead babe is little to you, husband!”

Here she choked, bursting into tears; nor did I think it well to answer herthat there was this difference in the matter, that whereas, with the exceptionof one infant, those sons whom I had lost were almost adolescent, the babe shebore lived but sixty days.

Now when the Queen first put it in my mind to write down the history of mylife, I remembered this outbreak of my beloved wife; and seeing that I couldwrite no true tale and leave out of it the story of her who was also my wife,Montezuma’s daughter, Otomie, Princess of the Otomie, and of the childrenthat she gave me, I let the matter lie. For I knew well, that though we spokevery rarely on the subject during all the many years we passed together, stillit was always in Lily’s mind; nor did her jealousy, being of the finersort, abate at all with age, but rather gathered with the gathering days. ThatI should execute the task without the knowledge of my wife would not have beenpossible, for till the very last she watched over my every act, and, as Iverily believe, divined the most of my thoughts.

And so we grew old together, peacefully, and side by side, speaking seldom ofthat great gap in my life when we were lost to each other and of all that thenbefell. At length the end came. My wife died suddenly in her sleep in theeighty-seventh year of her age. I buried her on the south side of the churchhere, with sorrow indeed, but not with sorrow inconsolable, for I know that Imust soon rejoin her, and those others whom I have loved.

There in that wide heaven are my mother and my sister and my sons; there aregreat Guatemoc my friend, last of the emperors, and many other companions inwar who have preceded me to peace; there, too, though she doubted of it, isOtomie the beautiful and proud. In the heaven which I trust to reach, all thesins of my youth and the errors of my age notwithstanding, it is told us thereis no marrying and giving in marriage; and this is well, for I do not know howmy wives, Montezuma’s daughter and the sweet English gentlewoman, wouldagree together were it otherwise.

And now to my task.

CHAPTER II
OF THE PARENTAGE OF THOMAS WINGFIELD

I, Thomas Wingfield, was born here at Ditchingham, and in this very room whereI write to-day. The house of my birth was built or added to early in the reignof the seventh Henry, but long before his time some kind of tenement stoodhere, which was lived in by the keeper of the vineyards, and known asGardener’s Lodge. Whether it chanced that the climate was more kindly inold times, or the skill of those who tended the fields was greater, I do notknow, but this at the least is true, that the hillside beneath which the housenestles, and which once was the bank of an arm of the sea or of a great broad,was a vineyard in Earl Bigod’s days. Long since it has ceased to growgrapes, though the name of the “Earl’s Vineyard” still clingsto all that slope of land which lies between this house and a certainhealth-giving spring that bubbles from the bank the half of a mile away, in thewaters of which sick folks come to bathe even from Norwich and Lowestoft. Butsheltered as it is from the east winds, to this hour the place has theadvantage that gardens planted here are earlier by fourteen days than anyothers in the country side, and that a man may sit in them coatless in thebitter month of May, when on the top of the hill, not two hundred paces hence,he must shiver in a jacket of otterskins.

The Lodge, for so it has always been named, in its beginnings having been but afarmhouse, faces to the south-west, and is built so low that it might well bethought that the damp from the river Waveney, which runs through the marshesclose by, would rise in it. But this is not so, for though in autumn the roke,as here in Norfolk we name ground fog, hangs about the house at nightfall, andin seasons of great flood the water has been known to pour into the stables atthe back of it, yet being built on sand and gravel there is no healthierhabitation in the parish. For the rest the building is of stud-work and redbrick, quaint and mellow looking, with many corners and gables that in summerare half hidden in roses and other creeping plants, and with its outlook on themarshes and the common where the lights vary continually with the seasons andeven with the hours of the day, on the red roofs of Bungay town, and on thewooded bank that stretches round the Earsham lands; though there are manylarger, to my mind there is none pleasanter in these parts. Here in this houseI was born, and here doubtless I shall die, and having spoken of it at somelength, as we are wont to do of spots which long custom has endeared to us, Iwill go on to tell of my parentage.

First, then, I would set out with a certain pride—for who of us does notlove an ancient name when we happen to be born to it?—that I am sprungfrom the family of the Wingfields of Wingfield Castle in Suffolk, that liessome two hours on horseback from this place. Long ago the heiress of theWingfields married a De la Pole, a family famous in our history, the last ofwhom, Edmund, Earl of Suffolk, lost his head for treason when I was young, andthe castle passed to the De la Poles with her. But some offshoots of the oldWingfield stock lingered in the neighbourhood, perchance there was a barsinister on their coat of arms, I know not and do not care to know; at theleast my fathers and I are of this blood. My grandfather was a shrewd man, moreof a yeoman than a squire, though his birth was gentle. He it was who boughtthis place with the lands round it, and gathered up some fortune, mostly bycareful marrying and living, for though he had but one son he was twicemarried, and also by trading in cattle.

Now my grandfather was godly-minded even to superstition, and strange as it mayseem, having only one son, nothing would satisfy him but that the boy should bemade a priest. But my father had little leaning towards the priesthood and lifein a monastery, though at all seasons my grandfather strove to reason it intohim, sometimes with words and examples, at others with his thick cudgel ofholly, that still hangs over the ingle in the smaller sitting-room. The end ofit was that the lad was sent to the priory here in Bungay, where his conductwas of such nature that within a year the prior prayed his parents to take himback and set him in some way of secular life. Not only, so said the prior, didmy father cause scandal by his actions, breaking out of the priory at night andvisiting drinking houses and other places; but, such was the sum of hiswickedness, he did not scruple to question and make mock of the very doctrinesof the Church, alleging even that there was nothing sacred in the image of theVirgin Mary which stood in the chancel, and shut its eyes in prayer before allthe congregation when the priest elevated the Host. “Therefore,”said the prior, “I pray you take back your son, and let him find someother road to the stake than that which runs through the gates of BungayPriory.”

Now at this story my grandfather was so enraged that he almost fell into a fit;then recovering, he bethought him of his cudgel of holly, and would have usedit. But my father, who was now nineteen years of age and very stout and strong,twisted it from his hand and flung it full fifty yards, saying that no manshould touch him more were he a hundred times his father. Then he walked away,leaving the prior and my grandfather staring at each other.

Now to shorten a long tale, the end of the matter was this. It was believedboth by my grandfather and the prior that the true cause of my father’scontumacy was a passion which he had conceived for a girl of humble birth, amiller’s fair daughter who dwelt at Waingford Mills. Perhaps there wastruth in this belief, or perhaps there was none. What does it matter, seeingthat the maid married a butcher at Beccles and died years since at the good ageof ninety and five? But true or false, my grandfather believed the tale, andknowing well that absence is the surest cure for love, he entered into a planwith the prior that my father should be sent to a monastery at Seville inSpain, of which the prior’s brother was abbot, and there learn to forgetthe miller’s daughter and all other worldly things.

When this was told to my father he fell into it readily enough, being a youngman of spirit and having a great desire to see the world, otherwise, however,than through the gratings of a monastery window. So the end of it was that hewent to foreign parts in the care of a party of Spanish monks, who hadjourneyed here to Norfolk on a pilgrimage to the shrine of our Lady ofWalsingham.

It is said that my grandfather wept when he parted with his son, feeling thathe should see him no more; yet so strong was his religion, or rather hissuperstition, that he did not hesitate to send him away, though for no reasonsave that he would mortify his own love and flesh, offering his son for asacrifice as Abraham would have offered Isaac. But though my father appeared toconsent to the sacrifice, as did Isaac, yet his mind was not altogether set onaltars and faggots; in short, as he himself told me in after years, his planswere already laid.

Thus it chanced that when he had sailed from Yarmouth a year and six months,there came a letter from the abbot of the monastery in Seville to his brother,the prior of St. Mary’s at Bungay, saying that my father had fled fromthe monastery, leaving no trace of where he had gone. My grandfather wasgrieved at this tidings, but said little about it.

Two more years passed away, and there came other news, namely, that my fatherhad been captured, that he had been handed over to the power of the HolyOffice, as the accursed Inquisition was then named, and tortured to death atSeville. When my grandfather heard this he wept, and bemoaned himself that hisfolly in forcing one into the Church who had no liking for that path, hadbrought about the shameful end of his only son. After that date also he brokehis friendship with the prior of St. Mary’s at Bungay, and ceased hisofferings to the priory. Still he did not believe that my father was dead intruth, since on the last day of his own life, that ended two years later, hespoke of him as a living man, and left messages to him as to the management ofthe lands which now were his.

And in the end it became clear that this belief was not ill-founded, for oneday three years after the old man’s death, there landed at the port ofYarmouth none other than my father, who had been absent some eight years inall. Nor did he come alone, for with him he brought a wife, a young and verylovely lady, who afterwards was my mother. She was a Spaniard of noble family,having been born at Seville, and her maiden name was Donna Luisa de Garcia.

Now of all that befell my father during his eight years of wandering I cannotspeak certainly, for he was very silent on the matter, though I may have needto touch on some of his adventures. But I know it is true that he fell underthe power of the Holy Office, for once when as a little lad I bathed with himin the Elbow Pool, where the river Waveney bends some three hundred yards abovethis house, I saw that his breast and arms were scored with long white scars,and asked him what had caused them. I remember well how his face changed as Ispoke, from kindliness to the hue of blackest hate, and how he answeredspeaking to himself rather than to me.

“Devils,” he said, “devils set on their work by the chief ofall devils that live upon the earth and shall reign in hell. Hark you, my sonThomas, there is a country called Spain where your mother was born, and therethese devils abide who torture men and women, aye, and burn them living in thename of Christ. I was betrayed into their hands by him whom I name the chief ofthe devils, though he is younger than I am by three years, and their pincersand hot irons left these marks upon me. Aye, and they would have burnt me alivealso, only I escaped, thanks to your mother—but such tales are not for alittle lad’s hearing; and see you never speak of them, Thomas, for theHoly Office has a long arm. You are half a Spaniard, Thomas, your skin and eyestell their own tale, but whatever skin and eyes may tell, let your heart givethem the lie. Keep your heart English, Thomas; let no foreign devilments enterthere. Hate all Spaniards except your mother, and be watchful lest her bloodshould master mine within you.”

I was a child then, and scarcely understood his words or what he meant by them.Afterwards I learned to understand them but too well. As for my father’scounsel, that I should conquer my Spanish blood, would that I could always havefollowed it, for I know that from this blood springs the most of such evil asis in me. Hence come my fixedness of purpose or rather obstinacy, and my powersof unchristian hatred that are not small towards those who have wronged me.Well, I have done what I might to overcome these and other faults, but striveas we may, that which is bred in the bone will out in the flesh, as I have seenin many signal instances.

There were three of us children, Geoffrey my elder brother, myself, and mysister Mary, who was one year my junior, the sweetest child and the mostbeautiful that I have ever known. We were very happy children, and our beautywas the pride of our father and mother, and the envy of other parents. I wasthe darkest of the three, dark indeed to swarthiness, but in Mary the Spanishblood showed only in her rich eyes of velvet hue, and in the glow upon hercheek that was like the blush on a ripe fruit. My mother used to call me herlittle Spaniard, because of my swarthiness, that is when my father was notnear, for such names angered him. She never learned to speak English very well,but he would suffer her to talk in no other tongue before him. Still, when hewas not there she spoke in Spanish, of which language, however, I alone of thefamily became a master—and that more because of certain volumes of oldSpanish romances which she had by her, than for any other reason. From myearliest childhood I was fond of such tales, and it was by bribing me with thepromise that I should read them that she persuaded me to learn Spanish. For mymother’s heart still yearned towards her old sunny home, and often shewould talk of it with us children, more especially in the winter season, whichshe hated as I do. Once I asked her if she wished to go back to Spain. Sheshivered and answered no, for there dwelt one who was her enemy and would killher; also her heart was with us children and our father. I wondered if this manwho sought to kill my mother was the same as he of whom my father had spoken as“the chief of the devils,” but I only answered that no man couldwish to kill one so good and beautiful.

“Ah! my boy,” she said, “it is just because I am, or ratherhave been, beautiful that he hates me. Others would have wedded me besides yourdear father, Thomas.” And her face grew troubled as though with fear.

Now when I was eighteen and a half years old, on a certain evening in the monthof May it happened that a friend of my father’s, Squire Bozard, late ofthe Hall in this parish, called at the Lodge on his road from Yarmouth, and inthe course of his talk let it fall that a Spanish ship was at anchor in theRoads, laden with merchandise. My father pricked up his ears at this, and askedwho her captain might be. Squire Bozard answered that he did not know his name,but that he had seen him in the market-place, a tall and stately man, richlydressed, with a handsome face and a scar upon his temple.

At this news my mother turned pale beneath her olive skin, and muttered inSpanish:

“Holy Mother! grant that it be not he.”

My father also looked frightened, and questioned the squire closely as to theman’s appearance, but without learning anything more. Then he bade himadieu with little ceremony, and taking horse rode away for Yarmouth.

That night my mother never slept, but sat all through it in her nursing chair,brooding over I know not what. As I left her when I went to my bed, so I foundher when I came from it at dawn. I can remember well pushing the door ajar tosee her face glimmering white in the twilight of the May morning, as she sat,her large eyes fixed upon the lattice.

“You have risen early, mother,” I said.

“I have never lain down, Thomas,” she answered.

“Why not? What do you fear?”

“I fear the past and the future, my son. Would that your father wereback.”

About ten o’clock of that morning, as I was making ready to walk intoBungay to the house of that physician under whom I was learning the art ofhealing, my father rode up. My mother, who was watching at the lattice, ran outto meet him.

Springing from his horse he embraced her, saying, “Be of good cheer,sweet, it cannot be he. This man has another name.”

“But did you see him?” she asked.

“No, he was out at his ship for the night, and I hurried home to tellyou, knowing your fears.”

“It were surer if you had seen him, husband. He may well have takenanother name.”

“I never thought of that, sweet,” my father answered; “buthave no fear. Should it be he, and should he dare to set foot in the parish ofDitchingham, there are those who will know how to deal with him. But I am surethat it is not he.”

“Thanks be to Jesu then!” she said, and they began talking in a lowvoice.

Now, seeing that I was not wanted, I took my cudgel and started down thebridle-path towards the common footbridge, when suddenly my mother called meback.

“Kiss me before you go, Thomas,” she said. “You must wonderwhat all this may mean. One day your father will tell you. It has to do with ashadow which has hung over my life for many years, but that is, I trust, gonefor ever.”

“If it be a man who flings it, he had best keep out of reach ofthis,” I said, laughing, and shaking my thick stick.

“It is a man,” she answered, “but one to be dealt withotherwise than by blows, Thomas, should you ever chance to meet him.”

“May be, mother, but might is the best argument at the last, for the mostcunning have a life to lose.”

“You are too ready to use your strength, son,” she said, smilingand kissing me. “Remember the old Spanish proverb: ‘He strikeshardest who strikes last.’”

“And remember the other proverb, mother: ‘Strike before thou artstricken,’” I answered, and went.

When I had gone some ten paces something prompted me to look back, I know notwhat. My mother was standing by the open door, her stately shape framed as itwere in the flowers of a white creeping shrub that grew upon the wall of theold house. As was her custom, she wore a mantilla of white lace upon her head,the ends of which were wound beneath her chin, and the arrangement of it wassuch that at this distance for one moment it put me in mind of the wrappingswhich are placed about the dead. I started at the thought and looked at herface. She was watching me with sad and earnest eyes that seemed to be filledwith the spirit of farewell.

I never saw her again till she was dead.

CHAPTER III
THE COMING OF THE SPANIARD

And now I must go back and speak of my own matters. As I have told, it was myfather’s wish that I should be a physician, and since I came back from myschooling at Norwich, that was when I had entered on my sixteenth year, I hadstudied medicine under the doctor who practised his art in the neighbourhood ofBungay. He was a very learned man and an honest, Grimstone by name, and as Ihad some liking for the business I made good progress under him. Indeed I hadlearned almost all that he could teach me, and my father purposed to send me toLondon, there to push on my studies, so soon as I should attain my twentiethyear, that is within some five months of the date of the coming of theSpaniard.

But it was not fated that I should go to London.

Medicine was not the only thing that I studied in those days, however. SquireBozard of Ditchingham, the same who told my father of the coming of the Spanishship, had two living children, a son and a daughter, though his wife had bornehim many more who died in infancy. The daughter was named Lily and of my ownage, having been born three weeks after me in the same year. Now the Bozardsare gone from these parts, for my great-niece, the granddaughter and soleheiress of this son, has married and has issue of another name. But this is bythe way.

From our earliest days we children, Bozards and Wingfields, lived almost asbrothers and sisters, for day by day we met and played together in the snow orin the flowers. Thus it would be hard for me to say when I began to love Lilyor when she began to love me; but I know that when first I went to school atNorwich I grieved more at losing sight of her than because I must part from mymother and the rest. In all our games she was ever my partner, and I wouldsearch the country round for days to find such flowers as she chanced to love.When I came back from school it was the same, though by degrees Lily grewshyer, and I also grew suddenly shy, perceiving that from a child she hadbecome a woman. Still we met often, and though neither said anything of it, itwas sweet to us to meet.

Thus things went on till this day of my mother’s death. But before I gofurther I must tell that Squire Bozard looked with no favour on the friendshipbetween his daughter and myself—and this, not because he disliked me, butrather because he would have seen Lily wedded to my elder brother Geoffrey, myfather’s heir, and not to a younger son. So hard did he grow about thematter at last that we two might scarcely meet except by seeming accident,whereas my brother was ever welcome at the Hall. And on this account somebitterness arose between us two brothers, as is apt to be the case when a womancomes between friends however close. For it must be known that my brotherGeoffrey also loved Lily, as all men would have loved her, and with a betterright perhaps than I had—for he was my elder by three years and born topossessions. It may seem indeed that I was somewhat hasty to fall into thisstate, seeing that at the time of which I write I was not yet of age; but youngblood is nimble, and moreover mine was half Spanish, and made a man of me whenmany a pure-bred Englishman is still nothing but a boy. For the blood and thesun that ripens it have much to do with such matters, as I have seen oftenenough among the Indian peoples of Anahuac, who at the age of fifteen will taketo themselves a bride of twelve. At the least it is certain that when I waseighteen years of age I was old enough to fall in love after such fashion thatI never fell out of it again altogether, although the history of my life mayseem to give me the lie when I say so. But I take it that a man may loveseveral women and yet love one of them the best of all, being true in thespirit to the law which he breaks in the letter.

Now when I had attained nineteen years I was a man full grown, and writing as Ido in extreme old age, I may say it without false shame, a very handsome youthto boot. I was not over tall, indeed, measuring but five feet nine inches and ahalf in height, but my limbs were well made, and I was both deep and broad inthe chest. In colour I was, and my white hair notwithstanding, am stillextraordinarily dark hued, my eyes also were large and dark, and my hair, whichwas wavy, was coal black. In my deportment I was reserved and grave to sadness,in speech I was slow and temperate, and more apt at listening than in talking.I weighed matters well before I made up my mind upon them, but being made up,nothing could turn me from that mind short of death itself, whether it were seton good or evil, on folly or wisdom. In those days also I had little religion,since, partly because of my father’s secret teaching and partly throughthe workings of my own reason, I had learned to doubt the doctrines of theChurch as they used to be set out. Youth is prone to reason by large leaps asit were, and to hold that all things are false because some are proved false;and thus at times in those days I thought that there was no God, because thepriest said that the image of the Virgin at Bungay wept and did other thingswhich I knew that it did not do. Now I know well that there is a God, for myown story proves it to my heart. In truth, what man can look back across a longlife and say that there is no God, when he can see the shadow of His hand lyingdeep upon his tale of years?

On this sad day of which I write I knew that Lily, whom I loved, would bewalking alone beneath the great pollard oaks in the park of Ditchingham Hall.Here, in Grubswell as the spot is called, grew, and indeed still grow, certainhawthorn trees that are the earliest to blow of any in these parts, and when wehad met at the church door on the Sunday, Lily said that there would be bloomupon them by the Wednesday, and on that afternoon she should go to cut it. Itmay well be that she spoke thus with design, for love will breed cunning in theheart of the most guileless and truthful maid. Moreover, I noticed that thoughshe said it before her father and the rest of us, yet she waited to speak tillmy brother Geoffrey was out of hearing, for she did not wish to go maying withhim, and also that as she spoke she shot a glance of her grey eyes at me. Thenand there I vowed to myself that I also would be gathering hawthorn bloom inthis same place and on that Wednesday afternoon, yes, even if I must playtruant and leave all the sick of Bungay to Nature’s nursing. Moreover, Iwas determined on one thing, that if I could find Lily alone I would delay nolonger, but tell her all that was in my heart; no great secret indeed, forthough no word of love had ever passed between us as yet, each knew theother’s hidden thoughts. Not that I was in the way to become affianced toa maid, who had my path to cut in the world, but I feared that if I delayed tomake sure of her affection my brother would be before me with her father, andLily might yield to that to which she would not yield if once we had plightedtroth.

Now it chanced that on this afternoon I was hard put to it to escape to mytryst, for my master, the physician, was ailing, and sent me to visit the sickfor him, carrying them their medicines. At the last, however, between four andfive o’clock, I fled, asking no leave. Taking the Norwich road I ran fora mile and more till I had passed the Manor House and the church turn, and drewnear to Ditchingham Park. Then I dropped my pace to a walk, for I did not wishto come before Lily heated and disordered, but rather looking my best, to whichend I had put on my Sunday garments. Now as I went down the little hill in theroad that runs past the park, I saw a man on horseback who looked first at thebridle-path, that at this spot turns off to the right, then back across thecommon lands towards the Vineyard Hills and the Waveney, and then along theroad as though he did not know which way to turn. I was quick to noticethings—though at this moment my mind was not at its swiftest, being seton other matters, and chiefly as to how I should tell my tale to Lily—andI saw at once that this man was not of our country.

He was very tall and noble-looking, dressed in rich garments of velvet adornedby a gold chain that hung about his neck, and as I judged about forty years ofage. But it was his face which chiefly caught my eye, for at that moment therewas something terrible about it. It was long, thin, and deeply carved; the eyeswere large, and gleamed like gold in sunlight; the mouth was small and wellshaped, but it wore a devilish and cruel sneer; the forehead lofty, indicatinga man of mind, and marked with a slight scar. For the rest the cavalier wasdark and southern-looking, his curling hair, like my own, was black, and hewore a peaked chestnut-coloured beard.

By the time that I had finished these observations my feet had brought mealmost to the stranger’s side, and for the first time he caught sight ofme. Instantly his face changed, the sneer left it, and it became kindly andpleasant looking. Lifting his bonnet with much courtesy he stammered somethingin broken English, of which all that I could catch was the word Yarmouth; thenperceiving that I did not understand him, he cursed the English tongue and allthose who spoke it, aloud and in good Castilian.

“If the señor will graciously express his wish in Spanish,” I said,speaking in that language, “it may be in my power to help him.”

“What! you speak Spanish, young sir,” he said, starting, “andyet you are not a Spaniard, though by your face you well might be. Caramba! butit is strange!” and he eyed me curiously.

“It may be strange, sir,” I answered, “but I am in haste. Bepleased to ask your question and let me go.”

“Ah!” he said, “perhaps I can guess the reason of your hurry.I saw a white robe down by the streamlet yonder,” and he nodded towardsthe park. “Take the advice of an older man, young sir, and be careful.Make what sport you will with such, but never believe them and never marrythem—lest you should live to desire to kill them!”

Here I made as though I would pass on, but he spoke again.

“Pardon my words, they were well meant, and perhaps you may come to learntheir truth. I will detain you no more. Will you graciously direct me on myroad to Yarmouth, for I am not sure of it, having ridden by another way, andyour English country is so full of trees that a man cannot see a mile?”

I walked a dozen paces down the bridle-path that joined the road at this place,and pointed out the way that he should go, past Ditchingham church. As I did soI noticed that while I spoke the stranger was watching my face keenly and, asit seemed to me, with an inward fear which he strove to master and could not.When I had finished again he raised his bonnet and thanked me, saying,

“Will you be so gracious as to tell me your name, young Sir?”

“What is my name to you?” I answered roughly, for I disliked thisman. “You have not told me yours.”

“No, indeed, I am travelling incognito. Perhaps I also have met a lady inthese parts,” and he smiled strangely. “I only wished to know thename of one who had done me a courtesy, but who it seems is not so courteous asI deemed.” And he shook his horse’s reins.

“I am not ashamed of my name,” I said. “It has been an honestone so far, and if you wish to know it, it is Thomas Wingfield.”

“I thought it,” he cried, and as he spoke his face grew like theface of a fiend. Then before I could find time even to wonder, he had sprungfrom his horse and stood within three paces of me.

“A lucky day! Now we will see what truth there is in prophecies,”he said, drawing his silver-mounted sword. “A name for a name; Juan deGarcia gives you greeting, Thomas Wingfield.”

Now, strange as it may seem, it was at this moment only that there flashedacross my mind the thought of all that I had heard about the Spanish stranger,the report of whose coming to Yarmouth had stirred my father and mother sodeeply. At any other time I should have remembered it soon enough, but on thisday I was so set upon my tryst with Lily and what I should say to her, thatnothing else could hold a place in my thoughts.

“This must be the man,” I said to myself, and then I said no more,for he was on me, sword up. I saw the keen point flash towards me, and sprangto one side having a desire to fly, as, being unarmed except for my stick, Imight have done without shame. But spring as I would I could not avoid thethrust altogether. It was aimed at my heart and it pierced the sleeve of myleft arm, passing through the flesh—no more. Yet at the pain of that cutall thought of flight left me, and instead of it a cold anger filled me,causing me to wish to kill this man who had attacked me thus and unprovoked. Inmy hand was my stout oaken staff which I had cut myself on the banks of HollowHill, and if I would fight I must make such play with this as I might. It seemsa poor weapon indeed to match against a Toledo blade in the hands of one whocould handle it well, and yet there are virtues in a cudgel, for when a mansees himself threatened with it, he is likely to forget that he holds in hishand a more deadly weapon, and to take to the guarding of his own head in placeof running his adversary through the body.

And that was what chanced in this case, though how it came about exactly Icannot tell. The Spaniard was a fine swordsman, and had I been armed as he waswould doubtless have overmatched me, who at that age had no practice in theart, which was almost unknown in England. But when he saw the big stickflourished over him he forgot his own advantage, and raised his arm to wardaway the blow. Down it came upon the back of his hand, and lo! his sword fellfrom it to the grass. But I did not spare him because of that, for my blood wasup. The next stroke took him on the lips, knocking out a tooth and sending himbackwards. Then I caught him by the leg and beat him most unmercifully, notupon the head indeed, for now that I was victor I did not wish to kill one whomI thought a madman as I would that I had done, but on every other part of him.

Indeed I thrashed him till my arms were weary and then I fell to kicking him,and all the while he writhed like a wounded snake and cursed horribly, thoughhe never cried out or asked for mercy. At last I ceased and looked at him, andhe was no pretty sight to see—indeed, what with his cuts and bruises andthe mire of the roadway, it would have been hard to know him for the gallantcavalier whom I had met not five minutes before. But uglier than all his hurtswas the look in his wicked eyes as he lay there on his back in the pathway andglared up at me.

“Now, friend Spaniard,” I said, “you have learned a lesson;and what is there to hinder me from treating you as you would have dealt withme who had never harmed you?” and I took up his sword and held it to histhroat.

“Strike home, you accursed whelp!” he answered in a broken voice;“it is better to die than to live to remember such shame as this.”

“No,” I said, “I am no foreign murderer to kill a defencelessman. You shall away to the justice to answer for yourself. The hangman has arope for such as you.”

“Then you must drag me thither,” he groaned, and shut his eyes asthough with faintness, and doubtless he was somewhat faint.

Now as I pondered on what should be done with the villain, it chanced that Ilooked up through a gap in the fence, and there, among the Grubswell Oaks threehundred yards or more away, I caught sight of the flutter of a white robe thatI knew well, and it seemed to me that the wearer of that robe was movingtowards the bridge of the “watering” as though she were weary ofwaiting for one who did not come.

Then I thought to myself that if I stayed to drag this man to the villagestocks or some other safe place, there would be an end of meeting with my lovethat day, and I did not know when I might find another chance. Now I would nothave missed that hour’s talk with Lily to bring a score ofmurderous-minded foreigners to their deserts, and, moreover, this one hadearned good payment for his behaviour. Surely, thought I, he might wait a whiletill I had done my love-making, and if he would not wait I could find a meansto make him do so. Not twenty paces from us the horse stood cropping the grass.I went to him and undid his bridle rein, and with it fastened the Spaniard to asmall wayside tree as best I was able.

“Now, here you stay,” I said, “till I am ready to fetchyou;” and I turned to go.

But as I went a great doubt took me, and once more I remembered mymother’s fear, and how my father had ridden in haste to Yarmouth onbusiness about a Spaniard. Now to-day a Spaniard had wandered to Ditchingham,and when he learned my name had fallen upon me madly trying to kill me. Was notthis the man whom my mother feared, and was it right that I should leave himthus that I might go maying with my dear? I knew in my breast that it was notright, but I was so set upon my desire and so strongly did my heartstrings pullme towards her whose white robe now fluttered on the slope of the Park Hill,that I never heeded the warning.

Well had it been for me if I had done so, and well for some who were yetunborn. Then they had never known death, nor I the land of exile, the taste ofslavery, and the altar of sacrifice.

CHAPTER IV
THOMAS TELLS HIS LOVE

Having made the Spaniard as fast as I could, his arms being bound to the treebehind him, and taking his sword with me, I began to run hard after Lily andcaught her not too soon, for in one more minute she would have turned along theroad that runs to the watering and over the bridge by the Park Hill path to theHall.

Hearing my footsteps, she faced about to greet me, or rather as though to seewho it was that followed her. There she stood in the evening light, a bough ofhawthorn bloom in her hand, and my heart beat yet more wildly at the sight ofher. Never had she seemed fairer than as she stood thus in her white robe, alook of amaze upon her face and in her grey eyes, that was half real halffeigned, and with the sunlight shifting on her auburn hair that showed beneathher little bonnet. Lily was no round-checked country maid with few beautiessave those of health and youth, but a tall and shapely lady who had ripenedearly to her full grace and sweetness, and so it came about that though we werealmost of an age, yet in her presence I felt always as though I were theyounger. Thus in my love for her was mingled some touch of reverence.

“Oh! it is you, Thomas,” she said, blushing as she spoke. “Ithought you were not—I mean that I am going home as it grows late. Butsay, why do you run so fast, and what has happened to you, Thomas, that yourarm is bloody and you carry a sword in your hand?”

“I have no breath to speak yet,” I answered. “Come back tothe hawthorns and I will tell you.”

“No, I must be wending homewards. I have been among the trees for morethan an hour, and there is little bloom upon them.”

“I could not come before, Lily. I was kept, and in a strange manner. AlsoI saw bloom as I ran.”

“Indeed, I never thought that you would come, Thomas,” sheanswered, looking down, “who have other things to do than to go outmaying like a girl. But I wish to hear your story, if it is short, and I willwalk a little way with you.”

So we turned and walked side by side towards the great pollard oaks, and by thetime that we reached them, I had told her the tale of the Spaniard, and how hestrove to kill me, and how I had beaten him with my staff. Now Lily listenedeagerly enough, and sighed with fear when she learned how close I had been todeath.

“But you are wounded, Thomas,” she broke in; “see, the bloodruns fast from your arm. Is the thrust deep?”

“I have not looked to see. I have had no time to look.”

“Take off your coat, Thomas, that I may dress the wound. Nay, I will haveit so.”

So I drew off the garment, not without pain, and rolled up the shirt beneath,and there was the hurt, a clean thrust through the fleshy part of the lowerarm. Lily washed it with water from the brook, and bound it with her kerchief,murmuring words of pity all the while. To say truth, I would have suffered aworse harm gladly, if only I could find her to tend it. Indeed, her gentle carebroke down the fence of my doubts and gave me a courage that otherwise mighthave failed me in her presence. At first, indeed, I could find no words, but asshe bound my wound, I bent down and kissed her ministering hand. She flushedred as the evening sky, the flood of crimson losing itself at last beneath herauburn hair, but it burned deepest upon the white hand which I had kissed.

“Why did you do that, Thomas?” she said, in a low voice.

Then I spoke. “I did it because I love you, Lily, and do not know how tobegin the telling of my love. I love you, dear, and have always loved as Ialways shall love you.”

“Are you so sure of that, Thomas?” she said, again.

“There is nothing else in the world of which I am so sure, Lily. What Iwish to be as sure of is that you love me as I love you.”

For a moment she stood quiet, her head sunk almost to her breast, then shelifted it and her eyes shone as I had never seen them shine before.

“Can you doubt it, Thomas?” she said.

And now I took her in my arms and kissed her on the lips, and the memory ofthat kiss has gone with me through my long life, and is with me yet, when, oldand withered, I stand upon the borders of the grave. It was the greatest joythat has been given to me in all my days. Too soon, alas! it was done, thatfirst pure kiss of youthful love—and I spoke again somewhat aimlessly.

“It seems then that you do love me who love you so well.”

“If you doubted it before, can you doubt it now?” sheanswered very softly. “But listen, Thomas. It is well that we should loveeach other, for we were born to it, and have no help in the matter, even if wewished to find it. Still, though love be sweet and holy, it is not all, forthere is duty to be thought of, and what will my father say to this,Thomas?”

“I do not know, Lily, and yet I can guess. I am sure, sweet, that hewishes you to take my brother Geoffrey, and leave me on one side.”

“Then his wishes are not mine, Thomas. Also, though duty be strong, it isnot strong enough to force a woman to a marriage for which she has no liking.Yet it may prove strong enough to keep a woman from a marriage for which herheart pleads—perhaps, also, it should have been strong enough to hold meback from the telling of my love.”

“No, Lily, the love itself is much, and though it should bring no fruit,still it is something to have won it for ever and a day.”

“You are very young to talk thus, Thomas. I am also young, I know, but wewomen ripen quicker. Perhaps all this is but a boy’s fancy, to pass withboyhood.”

“It will never pass, Lily. They say that our first loves are the longest,and that which is sown in youth will flourish in our age. Listen, Lily; I havemy place to make in the world, and it may take a time in the making, and I askone promise of you, though perhaps it is a selfish thing to seek. I ask of youthat you will be faithful to me, and come fair weather or foul, will wed noother man till you know me dead.”

“It is something to promise, Thomas, for with time come changes. Still Iam so sure of myself that I promise—nay I swear it. Of you I cannot besure, but things are so with us women that we must risk all upon a throw, andif we lose, good-bye to happiness.”

Then we talked on, and I cannot remember what we said, though these words thatI have written down remain in my mind, partly because of their own weight, andin part because of all that came about in the after years.

And at last I knew that I must go, though we were sad enough at parting. So Itook her in my arms and kissed her so closely that some blood from my wound randown her white attire. But as we embraced I chanced to look up, and saw a sightthat frightened me enough. For there, not five paces from us, stood SquireBozard, Lily’s father, watching all, and his face wore no smile.

He had been riding by a bridle-path to the watering ford, and seeing a coupletrespassing beneath the oaks, dismounted from his horse to hunt them away. Nottill he was quite near did he know whom he came to hunt, and then he stoodstill in astonishment. Lily and I drew slowly apart and looked at him. He was ashort stout man, with a red face and stern grey eyes, that seemed to bestarting from his head with anger. For a while he could not speak, but when hebegan at length the words came fast enough. All that he said I forget, but theupshot of it was that he desired to know what my business was with hisdaughter. I waited till he was out of breath, then answered him that Lily and Iloved each other well, and were plighting our troth.

“Is this so, daughter?” he asked.

“It is so, my father,” she answered boldly.

Then he broke out swearing. “You light minx,” he said, “youshall be whipped and kept cool on bread and water in your chamber. And for you,my half-bred Spanish cockerel, know once and for all that this maid is for yourbetters. How dare you come wooing my daughter, you empty pill-box, who have nottwo silver pennies to rattle in your pouch! Go win fortune and a name beforeyou dare to look up to such as she.”

“That is my desire, and I will do it, sir,” I answered.

“So, you apothecary’s drudge, you will win name and place, willyou! Well, long before that deed is done the maid shall be safely wedded to onewho has them and who is not unknown to you. Daughter, say now that you havefinished with him.”

“I cannot say that, father,” she replied, plucking at her robe.“If it is not your will that I should marry Thomas here, my duty is plainand I may not wed him. But I am my own and no duty can make me marry where Iwill not. While Thomas lives I am sworn to him and to no other man.”

“At the least you have courage, hussey,” said her father.“But listen now, either you will marry where and when I wish, or tramp itfor your bread. Ungrateful girl, did I breed you to flaunt me to my face? Nowfor you, pill-box. I will teach you to come kissing honest men’sdaughters without their leave,” and with a curse he rushed at me, stickaloft, to thrash me.

Then for the second time that day my quick blood boiled in me, and snatching upthe Spaniard’s sword that lay upon the grass beside me, I held it at thepoint, for the game was changed, and I who had fought with cudgel againstsword, must now fight with sword against cudgel. And had it not been that Lilywith a quick cry of fear struck my arm from beneath, causing the point of thesword to pass over his shoulder, I believe truly that I should then and therehave pierced her father through, and ended my days early with a noose about myneck.

“Are you mad?” she cried. “And do you think to win me byslaying my father? Throw down that sword, Thomas.”

“As for winning you, it seems that there is small chance of it;” Ianswered hotly, “but I tell you this, not for the sake of all the maidsupon the earth will I stand to be beaten with a stick like a scullion.”

“And there I do not blame you, lad,” said her father, more kindly.“I see that you also have courage which may serve you in good stead, andit was unworthy of me to call you ‘pill-box’ in my anger. Still, asI have said, the girl is not for you, so be gone and forget her as best youmay, and if you value your life, never let me find you two kissing again. Andknow that to-morrow I will have a word with your father on this matter.”

“I will go since I must go,” I answered, “but, sir, I stillhope to live to call your daughter wife. Lily, farewell till these storms areoverpast.”

“Farewell, Thomas,” she said weeping. “Forget me not and Iwill never forget my oath to you.”

Then taking Lily by the arm her father led her away.

I also went away—sad, but not altogether ill-pleased. For now I knew thatif I had won the father’s anger, I had also won the daughter’sunalterable love, and love lasts longer than wrath, and here or hereafter willwin its way at length. When I had gone a little distance I remembered theSpaniard, who had been clean forgotten by me in all this love and war, and Iturned to seek him and drag him to the stocks, the which I should have donewith joy, and been glad to find some one on whom to wreak my wrongs. But when Icame to the spot where I had left him, I found that fate had befriended him bythe hand of a fool, for there was no Spaniard but only the village idiot, BillyMinns by name, who stood staring first at the tree to which the foreigner hadbeen made fast, and then at a piece of silver in his hand.

“Where is the man who was tied here, Billy?” I asked.

“I know not, Master Thomas,” he answered in his Norfolk talk whichI will not set down. “Half-way to wheresoever he was going I should say,measured by the pace at which he left when once I had set him upon hishorse.”

“You set him on his horse, fool? How long was that ago?”

“How long! Well, it might be one hour, and it might be two. I’m noreckoner of time, that keeps its own score like an innkeeper, without my help.Lawks! how he did gallop off, working those long spurs he wore right into theribs of the horse. And little wonder, poor man, and he daft, not being able tospeak, but only to bleat sheeplike, and fallen upon by robbers on theking’s roads, and in broad daylight. But Billy cut him loose and caughthis horse and set him on it, and got this piece for his good charity. Lawks!but he was glad to be gone. How he did gallop!”

“Now you are a bigger fool even than I thought you, Billy Minns,” Isaid in anger. “That man would have murdered me, I overcame him and madehim fast, and you have let him go.”

“He would have murdered you, Master, and you made him fast! Then why didyou not stop to keep him till I came along, and we would have haled him to thestocks? That would have been sport and all. You call me fool—but if youfound a man covered with blood and hurts tied to a tree, and he daft and notable to speak, had you not cut him loose? Well, he’s gone, and this aloneis left of him,” and he spun the piece into the air.

Now, seeing that there was reason in Billy’s talk, for the fault wasmine, I turned away without more words, not straight homewards, for I wished tothink alone awhile on all that had come about between me and Lily and herfather, but down the way which runs across the lane to the crest of theVineyard Hills. These hills are clothed with underwood, in which large oaksgrow to within some two hundred yards of this house where I write, and thisunderwood is pierced by paths that my mother laid out, for she loved to walkhere. One of these paths runs along the bottom of the hill by the edge of thepleasant river Waveney, and the other a hundred feet or more above and near thecrest of the slope, or to speak more plainly, there is but one path shaped likethe letter O, placed thus ⬭, the curved ends of the letter marking howthe path turns upon the hill-side.

Now I struck the path at the end that is furthest from this house, and followedthat half of it which runs down by the river bank, having the water on one sideof it and the brushwood upon the other. Along this lower path I wandered, myeyes fixed upon the ground, thinking deeply as I went, now of the joy ofLily’s love, and now of the sorrow of our parting and of herfather’s wrath. As I went, thus wrapped in meditation, I saw somethingwhite lying upon the grass, and pushed it aside with the point of theSpaniard’s sword, not heeding it. Still, its shape and fashioningremained in my mind, and when I had left it some three hundred paces behind me,and was drawing near to the house, the sight of it came back to me as it laysoft and white upon the grass, and I knew that it was familiar to my eyes. Fromthe thing, whatever it might be, my mind passed to the Spaniard’s swordwith which I had tossed it aside, and from the sword to the man himself. Whathad been his business in this parish?—an ill one surely—and why hadhe looked as though he feared me and fallen upon me when he learned my name?

I stood still, looking downward, and my eyes fell upon footprints stamped inthe wet sand of the path. One of them was my mother’s. I could have swornto it among a thousand, for no other woman in these parts had so delicate afoot. Close to it, as though following after, was another that at first Ithought must also have been made by a woman, it was so narrow. But presently Isaw that this could scarcely be, because of its length, and moreover, that theboot which left it was like none that I knew, being cut very high at the instepand very pointed at the toe. Then, of a sudden, it came upon me that theSpanish stranger wore such boots, for I had noted them while I talked with him,and that his feet were following those of my mother, for they had trodden onher track, and in some places, his alone had stamped their impress on the sandblotting out her footprints. Then, too, I knew what the white rag was that Ihad thrown aside. It was my mother’s mantilla which I knew, and yet didnot know, because I always saw it set daintily upon her head. In a moment ithad come home to me, and with the knowledge a keen and sickening dread. Why hadthis man followed my mother, and why did her mantilla lie thus upon the ground?

I turned and sped like a deer back to where I had seen the lace. All the waythe footprints went before me. Now I was there. Yes, the wrapping was hers, andit had been rent as though by a rude hand; but where was she?

With a beating heart once more I bent to read the writing of the footsteps.Here they were mixed one with another, as though the two had stood closetogether, moving now this way and now that in struggle. I looked up the path,but there were none. Then I cast round about like a beagle, first along theriver side, then up the bank. Here they were again, and made by feet that flewand feet that followed. Up the bank they went fifty yards and more, now lostwhere the turf was sound, now seen in sand or loam, till they led to the boleof a big oak, and were once more mixed together, for here the pursuer had comeup with the pursued.

Despairingly as one who dreams, for now I guessed all and grew mad with fear, Ilooked this way and that, till at length I found more footsteps, those of theSpaniard. These were deep marked, as of a man who carried some heavy burden. Ifollowed them; first they went down the hill towards the river, then turnedaside to a spot where the brushwood was thick. In the deepest of the clump theboughs, now bursting into leaf, were bent downwards as though to hide somethingbeneath. I wrenched them aside, and there, gleaming whitely in the gatheringtwilight was the dead face of my mother.

CHAPTER V
THOMAS SWEARS AN OATH

For a while I stood amazed with horror, staring down at the dead face of mybeloved mother. Then I stooped to lift her and saw that she had been stabbed,and through the breast, stabbed with the sword which I carried in my hand.

Now I understood. This was the work of that Spanish stranger whom I had met ashe hurried from the place of murder, who, because of the wickedness of hisheart or for some secret reason, had striven to slay me also when he learnedthat I was my mother’s son. And I had held this devil in my power, andthat I might meet my May, I had suffered him to escape my vengeance, who, had Iknown the truth, would have dealt with him as the priests of Anahuac deal withthe victims of their gods. I understood and shed tears of pity, rage, andshame. Then I turned and fled homewards like one mad.

At the doorway I met my father and my brother Geoffrey riding up from Bungaymarket, and there was that written on my face which caused them to ask as withone voice:

“What evil thing has happened?”

Thrice I looked at my father before I could speak, for I feared lest the blowshould kill him. But speak I must at last, though I chose that it should be toGeoffrey my brother. “Our mother lies murdered yonder on the VineyardHill. A Spanish man has done the deed, Juan de Garcia by name.” When myfather heard these words his face became livid as though with pain of theheart, his jaw fell and a low moan issued from his open mouth. Presently herested his hand upon the pommel of the saddle, and lifting his ghastly face hesaid:

“Where is this Spaniard? Have you killed him?”

“No, father. He chanced upon me in Grubswell, and when he learned my namehe would have murdered me. But I played quarter staff with him and beat him toa pulp, taking his sword.”

“Ay, and then?”

“And then I let him go, knowing nothing of the deed he had alreadywrought upon our mother. Afterwards I will tell you all.”

“You let him go, son! You let Juan de Garcia go! Then, Thomas, may thecurse of God rest upon you till you find him and finish that which you beganto-day.”

“Spare to curse me, father, who am accursed by my own conscience. Turnyour horses rather and ride for Yarmouth, for there his ship lies and thitherhe has gone with two hours’ start. Perhaps you may still trap him beforehe sets sail.”

Without another word my father and brother wheeled their horses round anddeparted at full gallop into the gloom of the gathering night.

They rode so fiercely that, their horses being good, they came to the gates ofYarmouth in little more than an hour and a half, and that is fast riding. Butthe bird was flown. They tracked him to the quay and found that he had shippeda while before in a boat which was in waiting for him, and passed to his vesselthat lay in the Roads at anchor but with the most of her canvas set. Instantlyshe sailed, and now was lost in the night. Then my father caused notice to begiven that he would pay reward of two hundred pieces in gold to any ship thatshould capture the Spaniard, and two started on the quest, but they did notfind her that before morning was far on her way across the sea.

So soon as they had galloped away I called together the grooms and otherserving men and told them what had chanced. Then we went with lanterns, for bynow it was dark, and came to the thick brushwood where lay the body of mymother. I drew near the first, for the men were afraid, and so indeed was I,though why I should fear her lying dead who living had loved me tenderly, I donot know. Yet I know this, that when I came to the spot and saw two eyesglowering at me and heard the crash of bushes as something broke them, I couldalmost have fallen with fear, although I knew well that it was but a fox orwandering hound haunting the place of death.

Still I went on, calling the others to follow, and the end of it was that welaid my mother’s body upon a door which had been lifted from its hinges,and bore her home for the last time. And to me that path is still a hauntedplace. It is seventy years and more since my mother died by the hand of Juan deGarcia her cousin, yet old as I am and hardened to such sad scenes, I do notlove to walk that path alone at night.

Doubtless it was fancy which plays us strange tricks, still but a year ago,having gone to set a springe for a woodcock, I chanced to pass by yonder bigoak upon a November eve, and I could have sworn that I saw it all again. I sawmyself a lad, my wounded arm still bound with Lily’s kerchief, climbingslowly down the hill-side, while behind me, groaning beneath their burden, werethe forms of the four serving men. I heard the murmur of the river and the windthat seventy years ago whispered in the reeds. I saw the clouded sky flawedhere and there with blue, and the broken light that gleamed on the white burdenstretched upon the door, and the red stain at its breast. Ay, I heard myselftalk as I went forward with the lantern, bidding the men pass to the right ofsome steep and rotten ground, and it was strange to me to listen to my ownvoice as it had been in youth. Well, well, it was but a dream, yet such slavesare we to the fears of fancy, that because of the dead, I, who am almost oftheir number, do not love to pass that path at night.

At length we came home with our burden, and the women took it weeping and setabout their task with it. And now I must not only fight my own sorrows but muststrive to soothe those of my sister Mary, who as I feared would go mad withgrief and horror. At last she sobbed herself into a torpor, and I went andquestioned the men who sat round the fire in the kitchen, for none sought theirbeds that night. From them I learned that an hour or more before I met theSpaniard, a richly-dressed stranger had been seen walking along thechurch-path, and that he had tied his horse among some gorse and brambles onthe top of the hill, where he stood as though in doubt, till my mother cameout, when he descended and followed her. Also I learned that one of the men atwork in the garden, which is not more than three hundred paces from where thedeed was done, heard cries, but had taken no note of them, thinking forsooththat it was but the play of some lover from Bungay and his lass chasing eachother through the woods, as to this hour it is their fashion to do. Truly itseemed to me that day as though this parish of Ditchingham were the verynursery of fools, of whom I was the first and biggest, and indeed this samethought has struck me since concerning other matters.

At length the morning came, and with it my father and brother, who returnedfrom Yarmouth on hired horses, for their own were spent. In the afternoon alsonews followed them that the ships which had put to sea on the track of theSpaniard had been driven back by bad weather, having seen nothing of him.

Now I told all the story of my dealings with the murderer of my mother, keepingnothing back, and I must bear my father’s bitter anger because knowingthat my mother was in dread of a Spaniard, I had suffered my reason to be ledastray by my desire to win speech with my love. Nor did I meet with any comfortfrom my brother Geoffrey, who was fierce against me because he learned that Ihad not pleaded in vain with the maid whom he desired for himself. But he saidnothing of this reason. Also that no drop might be lacking in my cup, SquireBozard, who came with many other neighbours to view the corpse and offersympathy with my father in his loss, told him at the same time that he took itill that I should woo his daughter against his wish, and that if I continued inthis course it would strain their ancient friendship. Thus I was hit on everyside; by sorrow for my mother whom I had loved tenderly, by longing for my dearwhom I might not see, by self-reproach because I had let the Spaniard go when Iheld him fast, and by the anger of my father and my brother. Indeed those dayswere so dark and bitter, for I was at the age when shame and sorrow sting theirsharpest, that I wished that I were dead beside my mother. One comfort reachedme indeed, a message from Lily sent by a servant girl whom she trusted, givingme her dear love and bidding me to be of good cheer.

At length came the day of burial, and my mother, wrapped in fair white robes,was laid to her rest in the chancel of the church at Ditchingham, where myfather has long been set beside her, hard by the brass effigies that mark theburying place of Lily’s forefather, his wife, and many of their children.This funeral was the saddest of sights, for the bitterness of my father’sgrief broke from him in sobs and my sister Mary swooned away in my arms. Indeedthere were few dry eyes in all that church, for my mother, notwithstanding herforeign birth, was much loved because of her gentle ways and the goodness ofher heart. But it came to an end, and the noble Spanish lady and English wifewas left to her long sleep in the ancient church, where she shall rest on whenher tragic story and her very name are forgotten among men. Indeed this islikely to be soon, for I am the last of the Wingfields alive in these parts,though my sister Mary has left descendants of another name to whom my lands andfortune go except for certain gifts to the poor of Bungay and of Ditchingham.

When it was over I went back home. My father was sitting in the front room wellnigh beside himself with grief, and by him was my brother. Presently he beganto assail me with bitter words because I had let the murderer go when God gavehim into my hand.

“You forget, father,” sneered Geoffrey, “Thomas woos a maid,and it was more to him to hold her in his arms than to keep his mother’smurderer safely. But by this it seems he has killed two birds with one stone,he has suffered the Spanish devil to escape when he knew that our mother fearedthe coming of a Spaniard, and he has made enmity between us and Squire Bozard,our good neighbour, who strangely enough does not favour his wooing.”

“It is so,” said my father. “Thomas, your mother’sblood is on your hands.”

I listened and could bear this goading injustice no longer.

“It is false,” I said, “I say it even to my father. The manhad killed my mother before I met him riding back to seek his ship at Yarmouthand having lost his way; how then is her blood upon my hands? As for my wooingof Lily Bozard, that is my matter, brother, and not yours, though perhaps youwish that it was yours and not mine. Why, father, did you not tell me what youfeared of this Spaniard? I heard some loose talk only and gave little thoughtto it, my mind being full of other things. And now I will say something. Youcalled down God’s curse upon me, father, till such time as I should findthis murderer and finish what I had begun. So be it! Let God’s curse restupon me till I do find him. I am young, but I am quick and strong, and so soonas may be I start for Spain to hunt him there till I shall run him down or knowhim to be dead. If you will give me money to help me on my quest, so beit—if not I go without. I swear before God and by my mother’sspirit that I will neither rest nor stay till with the very sword that slewher, I have avenged her blood upon her murderer or know him dead, and if Isuffer myself to be led astray from the purpose of this oath by aught that is,then may a worse end than hers overtake me, may my soul be rejected in heaven,and my name be shameful for ever upon the earth!”

Thus I swore in my rage and anguish, holding up my hand to heaven that I calledupon to witness the oath.

My father looked at me keenly. “If that is your mind, son Thomas, youshall not lack for money. I would go myself, for blood must be wiped out withblood, but I am too broken in my health; also I am known in Spain and the HolyOffice would claim me there. Go, and my blessing go with you. It is right thatyou should go, for it is through your folly that our enemy has escapedus.”

“Yes, it is right that he should go,” said Geoffrey.

“You say that because you wish to be rid of me, Geoffrey,” Ianswered hotly, “and you would be rid of me because you desire to take myplace at the side of a certain maid. Follow your nature and do as you will, butif you would outwit an absent man no good shall come to you of it.”

“The girl is to him who can win her,” he said.

“The girl’s heart is won already, Geoffrey. You may buy her fromher father but you can never win her heart, and without a heart she will be buta poor prize.”

“Peace! now is no time for such talk of love and maids,” said myfather, “and listen. This is the tale of the Spanish murderer and yourmother. I have said nothing of it heretofore, but now it must out. When I was alad it happened that I also went to Spain because my father willed it. I wentto a monastery at Seville, but I had no liking for monks and their ways, and Ibroke out from the monastery. For a year or more I made my living as I bestmight, for I feared to return to England as a runaway. Still I made a livingand not a bad one, now in this way and now in that, but though I am ashamed tosay it, mostly by gaming, at which I had great luck. One night I met this manJuan de Garcia—for in his hate he gave you his true name when he wouldhave stabbed you—at play. Even then he had an evil fame, though he wasscarcely more than a lad, but he was handsome in person, set high in birth, andof a pleasing manner. It chanced that he won of me at the dice, and being in agood humour, he took me to visit at the house of his aunt, his uncle’swidow, a lady of Seville. This aunt had one child, a daughter, and thatdaughter was your mother. Now your mother, Luisa de Garcia, was affianced toher cousin Juan de Garcia, not with her own will indeed, for the contract hadbeen signed when she was only eight years old. Still it was binding, morebinding indeed than in this country, being a marriage in all except in fact.But those women who are thus bound for the most part bear no wife’s lovein their hearts, and so it was with your mother. Indeed she both hated andfeared her cousin Juan, though I think that he loved her more than anything onearth, and by one pretext and another she contrived to bring him to anagreement that no marriage should be celebrated till she was full twenty yearsof age. But the colder she was to him, the more was he inflamed with desire towin her and also her possessions, which were not small, for like all Spaniardshe was passionate, and like most gamesters and men of evil life, much in wantof money.

“Now to be brief, from the first moment that your mother and I set eyeson each other we loved one another, and it was our one desire to meet as oftenas might be; and in this we had no great difficulty, for her mother also fearedand hated Juan de Garcia, her nephew by marriage, and would have seen herdaughter clear of him if possible. The end of it was that I told my love, and aplot was made between us that we should fly to England. But all this had notescaped the ears of Juan, who had spies in the household, and was jealous andrevengeful as only a Spaniard can be. First he tried to be rid of me bychallenging me to a duel, but we were parted before we could draw swords. Thenhe hired bravos to murder me as I walked the streets at night, but I wore achain shirt beneath my doublet and their daggers broke upon it, and in place ofbeing slain I slew one of them. Twice baffled, de Garcia was not defeated.Fight and murder had failed, but another and surer means remained. I know nothow, but he had won some clue to the history of my life, and of how I hadbroken out from the monastery. It was left to him, therefore, to denounce me tothe Holy Office as a renegade and an infidel, and this he did one night; it wasthe night before the day when we should have taken ship. I was sitting withyour mother and her mother in their house at Seville, when six cowled menentered and seized me without a word. When I prayed to know their purpose theygave no other answer than to hold a crucifix before my eyes. Then I knew why Iwas taken, and the women ceased clinging to me and fell back sobbing. Secretlyand silently I was hurried away to the dungeons of the Holy Office, but of allthat befell me there I will not stop to tell.

“Twice I was racked, once I was seared with hot irons, thrice I wasflogged with wire whips, and all this while I was fed on food such as we shouldscarcely offer to a dog here in England. At length my offence of having escapedfrom a monastery and sundry blasphemies, so-called, being proved against me, Iwas condemned to death by fire.

“Then at last, when after a long year of torment and of horror, I hadabandoned hope and resigned myself to die, help came. On the eve of the dayupon which I was to be consumed by flame, the chief of my tormentors enteredthe dungeon where I lay on straw, and embracing me bade me be of good cheer,for the church had taken pity on my youth and given me my freedom. At first Ilaughed wildly, for I thought that this was but another torment, and not till Iwas freed of my fetters, clothed in decent garments, and set at midnightwithout the prison gates, would I believe that so good a thing had befallen methrough the hand of God. I stood weak and wondering outside the gates, notknowing where to fly, and as I stood a woman glided up to me wrapped in a darkcloak, who whispered ‘Come.’ That woman was your mother. She hadlearned of my fate from the boasting of de Garcia and set herself to save me.Thrice her plans failed, but at length through the help of some cunning agent,gold won what was denied to justice and to mercy, and my life and liberty werebought with a very great sum.

“That same night we were married and fled for Cadiz, your mother and I,but not her mother, who was bedridden with a sickness. For my sake your belovedmother abandoned her people, what remained to her of her fortune after payingthe price of my life, and her country, so strong is the love of woman. All hadbeen made ready, for at Cadiz lay an English ship, the ‘Mary’ ofBristol, in which passage was taken for us. But the ‘Mary’ wasdelayed in port by a contrary wind which blew so strongly that notwithstandinghis desire to save us, her master dared not take the sea. Two days and a nightwe lay in the harbour, fearing all things not without cause, and yet most happyin each other’s love. Now those who had charge of me in the dungeon hadgiven out that I had escaped by the help of my master the Devil, and I wassearched for throughout the country side. De Garcia also, finding that hiscousin and affianced wife was missing, guessed that we two were not far apart.It was his cunning, sharpened by jealousy and hate, that dogged us down step bystep till at length he found us.

“On the morning of the third day, the gale having abated, the anchor ofthe ‘Mary’ was got home and she swung out into the tideway. As shecame round and while the seamen were making ready to hoist the sails, a boatcarrying some twenty soldiers, and followed by two others, shot alongside andsummoned the captain to heave to, that his ship might be boarded and searchedunder warrant from the Holy Office. It chanced that I was on deck at the time,and suddenly, as I prepared to hide myself below, a man, in whom I knew deGarcia himself, stood up and called out that I was the escaped heretic whomthey sought. Fearing lest his ship should be boarded and he himself thrown intoprison with the rest of his crew, the captain would then have surrendered me.But I, desperate with fear, tore my clothes from my body and showed the cruelscars that marked it.

“‘You are Englishmen,’ I cried to the sailors, ‘andwill you deliver me to these foreign devils, who am of your blood? Look attheir handiwork,’ and I pointed to the half-healed scars left by thered-hot pincers; ‘if you give me up, you send me back to more of thistorment and to death by burning. Pity my wife if you will not pity me, or ifyou will pity neither, then lend me a sword that by death I may save myselffrom torture.’

“Then one of the seamen, a Southwold man who had known my father, calledout: ‘By God! I for one will stand by you, Thomas Wingfield. If they wantyou and your sweet lady they must kill me first,’ and seizing a bow fromthe rack he drew it out of its case and strung it, and setting an arrow on thestring he pointed it at the Spaniards in the boat.

“Then the others broke into shouts of:

“‘If you want any man from among us, come aboard and take him, youtorturing devils,’ and the like.

“Seeing where the heart of the crew lay, the captain found courage in histurn. He made no answer to the Spaniards, but bade half of the men hoist thesails with all speed, and the rest make ready to keep off the soldiers shouldthey seek to board us.

“By now the other two boats had come up and fastened on to us with theirhooks. One man climbed into the chains and thence to the deck, and I knew himfor a priest of the Holy Office, one of those who had stood by while I wastormented. Then I grew mad at the thought of all that I had suffered, whilethat devil watched, bidding them lay on for the love of God. Snatching the bowfrom the hand of the Southwold seaman, I drew the arrow to its head and loosed.It did not miss its mark, for like you, Thomas, I was skilled with the bow, andhe dived back into the sea with an English yard shaft in his heart.

“After that they tried to board us no more, though they shot at us witharrows, wounding one man. The captain called to us to lay down our bows andtake cover behind the bulwarks, for by now the sails began to draw. Then deGarcia stood up in the boat and cursed me and my wife.

“‘I will find you yet,’ he screamed, with many Spanish oathsand foul words. ‘If I must wait for twenty years I will be avenged uponyou and all you love. Be assured of this, Luisa de Garcia, hide where you will,I shall find you, and when we meet, you shall come with me for so long as Iwill keep you or that shall be the hour of your death.’

“Then we sailed away for England, and the boats fell astern.

“My sons, this is the story of my youth, and of how I came to wed yourmother whom I have buried to-day. Juan de Garcia has kept his word.”

“Yet it seems strange,” said my brother, “that after allthese years he should have murdered her thus, whom you say he loved. Surelyeven the evilest of men had shrunk from such a deed!”

“There is little that is strange about it,” answered my father.“How can we know what words were spoken between them before he stabbedher? Doubtless he told of some of them when he cried to Thomas that now theywould see what truth there was in prophecies. What did de Garcia swear yearssince?—that she should come with him or he would kill her. Your motherwas still beautiful, Geoffrey, and he may have given her choice between flightand death. Seek to know no more, son”—and suddenly my father hidhis face in his hands and broke into sobs that were dreadful to hear.

“Would that you had told us this tale before, father,” I said sosoon as I could speak. “Then there would have lived a devil the less inthe world to-day, and I should have been spared a long journey.”

Little did I know how long that journey would be!

CHAPTER VI
GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART

Within twelve days of the burial of my mother and the telling of the story ofhis marriage to her by my father, I was ready to start upon my search. As itchanced a vessel was about to sail from Yarmouth to Cadiz. She was named the“Adventuress,” of one hundred tons burden, and carried wool andother goods outwards, purposing to return with a cargo of wine and yew stavesfor bows. In this vessel my father bought me a passage. Moreover, he gave mefifty pounds in gold, which was as much as I would risk upon my person, andobtained letters from the Yarmouth firm of merchants to their agents in Cadiz,in which they were advised to advance me such sums as I might need up to atotal of one hundred and fifty English pounds, and further to assist me in anyway that was possible.

Now the ship “Adventuress” was to sail on the third day of June.Already it was the first of that month, and that evening I must ride toYarmouth, whither my baggage had gone already. Except one my farewells weremade, and yet that was the one I most wished to make. Since the day when we hadsworn our troth I had gained no sight of Lily except once at my mother’sburial, and then we had not spoken. Now it seemed that I must go without anyparting word, for her father had sent me notice that if I came near the Hallhis serving men had orders to thrust me from the door, and this was a shamethat I would not risk. Yet it was hard that I must go upon so long a journey,whence it well might chance I should not return, and bid her no goodbye. In mygrief and perplexity I spoke to my father, telling him how the matter stood andasking his help.

“I go hence,” I said, “to avenge our common loss, and if needbe to give my life for the honour of our name. Aid me then in this.”

“My neighbour Bozard means his daughter for your brother Geoffrey, andnot for you, Thomas,” he answered; “and a man may do what he willswith his own. Still I will help you if I can, at the least he cannot drive mefrom his door. Bid them bring horses, and we will ride to the Hall.”

Within the half of an hour we were there, and my father asked for speech withits master. The serving man looked at me askance, remembering his orders, stillhe ushered us into the justice room where the Squire sat drinking ale.

“Good morrow to you, neighbour,” said the Squire; “you arewelcome here, but you bring one with you who is not welcome, though he be yourson.”

“I bring him for the last time, friend Bozard. Listen to his request,then grant it or refuse it as you will; but if you refuse it, it will not bindus closer. The lad rides to-night to take ship for Spain to seek that man whomurdered his mother. He goes of his own free will because after the doing ofthe deed it was he who unwittingly suffered the murderer to escape, and it iswell that he should go.”

“He is a young hound to run such a quarry to earth, and in a strangecountry,” said the Squire. “Still I like his spirit and wish himwell. What would he of me?”

“Leave to bid farewell to your daughter. I know that his suit does notplease you and cannot wonder at it, and for my own part I think it too earlyfor him to set his fancy in the way of marriage. But if he would see the maidit can do no harm, for such harm as there is has been done already. Now foryour answer.”

Squire Bozard thought a while, then said:

“The lad is a brave lad though he shall be no son-in-law of mine. He isgoing far, and mayhap will return no more, and I do not wish that he shouldthink unkindly of me when I am dead. Go without, Thomas Wingfield, and standunder yonder beech—Lily shall join you there and you may speak with herfor the half of an hour—no more. See to it that you keep within sight ofthe window. Nay, no thanks; go before I change my mind.”

So I went and waited under the beech with a beating heart, and presently Lilyglided up to me, a more welcome sight to my eyes than any angel out of heaven.And, indeed, I doubt if an angel could have been more fair than she, or moregood and gentle.

“Oh! Thomas,” she whispered, when I had greeted her, “is thistrue that you sail oversea to seek the Spaniard?”

“I sail to seek the Spaniard, and to find him and to kill him when he isfound. It was to come to you, Lily, that I let him go, now I must let you go tocome to him. Nay, do not weep, I have sworn to do it, and were I to break myoath I should be dishonoured.”

“And because of this oath of yours I must be widowed, Thomas, before I ama wife? You go and I shall never see you more.”

“Who can say, my sweet? My father went over seas and came back safe,having passed through many perils.”

“Yes, he came back and—not alone. You are young, Thomas, and in farcountries there are ladies great and fair, and how shall I hold my own in yourheart against them, I being so far away?”

“I swear to you, Lily—”

“Nay, Thomas, swear no oaths lest you should add to your sins by breakingthem. Yet, love, forget me not, who shall forget you never. Perhaps—oh!it wrings my heart to say it—this is our last meeting on the earth. Ifso, then we must hope to meet in heaven. At the least be sure of this, while Ilive I will be true to you, and father or no father, I will die before I breakmy troth. I am young to speak so largely, but it shall be as I say. Oh! thisparting is more cruel than death. Would that we were asleep and forgotten amongmen. Yet it is best that you should go, for if you stayed what could we be toeach other while my father lives, and may he live long!”

“Sleep and forgetfulness will come soon enough, Lily; none must awaitthem for very long. Meanwhile we have our lives to live. Let us pray that wemay live them to each other. I go to seek fortune as well as foes, and I willwin it for your sake that we may marry.”

She shook her head sadly. “It were too much happiness, Thomas. Men andwomen may seldom wed their true loves, or if they do, it is but to lose them.At the least we love, and let us be thankful that we have learned what love canbe, for having loved here, perchance at the worst we may love otherwhere whenthere are none to say us nay.”

Then we talked on awhile, babbling broken words of love and hope and sorrow, asyoung folks so placed are wont to do, till at length Lily looked up with a sadsweet smile and said:

“It is time to go, sweetheart. My father beckons me from the lattice. Allis finished.”

“Let us go then,” I answered huskily, and drew her behind the trunkof the old beech. And there I caught her in my arms and kissed her again andyet again, nor was she ashamed to kiss me back.

After this I remember little of what happened, except that as we rode away Isaw her beloved face, wan and wistful, watching me departing out of her life.For twenty years that sad and beautiful face haunted me, and it haunts me yetathwart life and death. Other women have loved me and I have known otherpartings, some of them more terrible, but the memory of this woman as she wasthen, and of her farewell look, overruns them all. Whenever I gaze down thepast I see this picture framed in it and I know that it is one which cannotfade. Are there any sorrows like these sorrows of our youth? Can any bitternessequal the bitterness of such good-byes? I know but one of which I was fated totaste in after years, and that shall be told of in its place. It is a commonjest to mock at early love, but if it be real, if it be something more than themere arising of the passions, early love is late love also; it is love forever, the best and worst event which can befall a man or woman. I say it who amold and who have done with everything, and it is true.

One thing I have forgotten. As we kissed and clung in our despair behind thebole of the great beech, Lily drew a ring from her finger and pressed it intomy hand saying, “Look on this each morning when you wake, and think ofme.” It had been her mother’s, and to-day it still is set upon mywithered hand, gleaming in the winter sunlight as I trace these words. Throughthe long years of wild adventure, through all the time of after peace, in loveand war, in the shine of the camp fire, in the glare of the sacrificial flame,in the light of lonely stars illumining the lonely wilderness, that ring hasshone upon my hand, reminding me always of her who gave it, and on this hand itshall go down into the grave. It is a plain circlet of thick gold, somewhatworn now, a posy-ring, and on its inner surface is cut this quaint couplet:

Heart to heart,
Though far apart.

A fitting motto for us indeed, and one that has its meaning to this hour.

That same day of our farewell I rode with my father to Yarmouth. My brotherGeoffrey did not come with us, but we parted with kindly words, and of this Iam glad, for we never saw each other again. No more was said between us as toLily Bozard and our wooing of her, though I knew well enough that so soon as myback was turned he would try to take my place at her side, as indeed happened.I forgive it to him; in truth I cannot blame him much, for what man is therethat would not have desired to wed Lily who knew her? Once we were dearfriends, Geoffrey and I, but when we ripened towards manhood, our love of Lilycame between us, and we grew more and more apart. It is a common case enough.Well, as it chanced he failed, so why should I think unkindly of him? Let merather remember the affection of our childhood and forget the rest. God resthis soul.

Mary, my sister, who after Lily Bozard was now the fairest maiden in thecountry side, wept much at my going. There was but a year between us, and weloved each other dearly, for no such shadow of jealousy had fallen on ouraffection. I comforted her as well as I was able, and telling her all that hadpassed between me and Lily, I prayed her to stand my friend and Lily’s,should it ever be in her power to do so. This Mary promised to do readilyenough, and though she did not give the reason, I could see that she thought itpossible that she might be able to help us. As I have said, Lily had a brother,a young man of some promise, who at this time was away at college, and he andmy sister Mary had a strong fancy for each other, that might or might not ripeninto something closer. So we kissed and bade farewell with tears.

And after that my father and I rode away. But when we had passed down PirnhowStreet, and mounted the little hill beyond Waingford Mills to the left ofBungay town, I halted my horse, and looked back upon the pleasant valley of theWaveney where I was born, and my heart grew full to bursting. Had I known allthat must befall me, before my eyes beheld that scene again, I think indeedthat it would have burst. But God, who in his wisdom has laid many a burdenupon the backs of men, has saved them from this; for had we foreknowledge ofthe future, I think that of our own will but few of us would live to see it. SoI cast one long last look towards the distant mass of oaks that marked the spotwhere Lily lived, and rode on.

On the following day I embarked on board the “Adventuress” and wesailed. Before I left, my father’s heart softened much towards me, for heremembered that I was my mother’s best beloved, and feared also lest weshould meet no more. So much did it soften indeed, that at the last hour hechanged his mind and wished to hold me back from going. But having put my handto the plough and suffered all the bitterness of farewell, I would not returnto be mocked by my brother and my neighbours. “You speak too late,father,” I said. “You desired me to go to work this vengeance andstirred me to it with many bitter words, and now I would go if I knew that Imust die within a week, for such oaths cannot be lightly broken, and till mineis fulfilled the curse rests on me.”

“So be it, son,” he answered with a sigh. “Yourmother’s cruel death maddened me and I said what I may live to be sorryfor, though at the best I shall not live long, for my heart is broken. PerhapsI should have remembered that vengeance is in the hand of the Lord, who wreaksit at His own time and without our help. Do not think unkindly of me, my boy,if we should chance to meet no more, for I love you, and it was but the deeperlove that I bore to your mother which made me deal harshly with you.”

“I know it, father, and bear no grudge. But if you think that you owe meanything, pay it by holding back my brother from working wrong to me and LilyBozard while I am absent.”

“I will do my best, son, though were it not that you and she have grownso dear to each other, the match would have pleased me well. But as I havesaid, I shall not be long here to watch your welfare in this or any othermatter, and when I am gone things must follow their own fate. Do not forgetyour God or your home wherever you chance to wander, Thomas: keep yourself frombrawling, beware of women that are the snare of youth, and set a watch uponyour tongue and your temper which is not of the best. Moreover, wherever youmay be do not speak ill of the religion of the land, or make a mock of it byyour way of life, lest you should learn how cruel men can be when they thinkthat it is pleasing to their gods, as I have learnt already.”

I said that I would bear his counsel in mind, and indeed it saved me from manya sorrow. Then he embraced me and called on the Almighty to take me in Hiscare, and we parted.

I never saw him more, for though he was but middle-aged, within a year of mygoing my father died suddenly of a distemper of the heart in the nave ofDitchingham church, as he stood there, near the rood screen, musing by mymother’s grave one Sunday after mass, and my brother took his lands andplace. God rest him also! He was a true-hearted man, but more wrapped up in hislove for my mother than it is well for any man to be who would look at lifelargely and do right by all. For such love, though natural to women, is apt toturn to something that partakes of selfishness, and to cause him who bears itto think all else of small account. His children were nothing to my father whencompared to my mother, and he would have been content to lose them every one ifthereby he might have purchased back her life. But after all it was a nobleinfirmity, for he thought little of himself and had gone through much to winher.

Of my voyage to Cadiz, to which port I had learned that de Garcia’s shipwas bound, there is little to be told. We met with contrary winds in the Bay ofBiscay and were driven into the harbour of Lisbon, where we refitted. But atlast we came safely to Cadiz, having been forty days at sea.

CHAPTER VII
ANDRES DE FONSECA

Now I shall dwell but briefly on all the adventures which befell me during theyear or so that I remained in Spain, for were I to set out everything atlength, this history would have no end, or at least mine would find me before Icame to it.

Many travellers have told of the glories of Seville, to which ancient Moorishcity I journeyed with all speed, sailing there up the Guadalquivir, and I haveto tell of lands from which no other wanderer has returned to England, and mustpress on to them. To be short then; foreseeing that it might be necessary forme to stop some time in Seville, and being desirous to escape notice and to beat the smallest expense possible, I bethought me that it would be well if Icould find means of continuing my studies of medicine, and to this end Iobtained certain introductions from the firm of merchants to whose care I hadbeen recommended, addressed to doctors of medicine in Seville. These letters atmy request were made out not in my own name but in that of “Diegod’Aila,” for I did not wish it to be known that I was anEnglishman. Nor, indeed, was this likely, except my speech should betray me,for, as I have said, in appearance I was very Spanish, and the hindrance of thelanguage was one that lessened every day, since having already learned it frommy mother, and taking every opportunity to read and speak it, within six monthsI could talk Castilian except for some slight accent, like a native of theland. Also I have a gift for the acquiring of languages.

When I was come to Seville, and had placed my baggage in an inn, not one of themost frequented, I set out to deliver a letter of recommendation to a famousphysician of the town whose name I have long forgotten. This physician had afine house in the street of Las Palmas, a great avenue planted with gracefultrees, that has other little streets running into it. Down one of these I camefrom my inn, a quiet narrow place having houses with patiosorcourtyards on either side of it. As I walked down this street I noticed a mansitting in the shade on a stool in the doorway of his patio. He wassmall and withered, with keen black eyes and a wonderful air of wisdom, and hewatched me as I went by. Now the house of the famous physician whom I soughtwas so placed that the man sitting at this doorway could command it with hiseyes and take note of all who went in and came out. When I had found the houseI returned again into the quiet street and walked to and fro there for a while,thinking of what tale I should tell to the physician, and all the time thelittle man watched me with his keen eyes. At last I had made up my story andwent to the house, only to find that the physician was from home. Havinginquired when I might find him I left, and once more took to the narrow street,walking slowly till I came to where the little man sat. As I passed him, hisbroad hat with which he was fanning himself slipped to the ground before myfeet. I stooped down, lifted it from the pavement, and restored it to him.

“A thousand thanks, young sir,” he said in a full and gentle voice.“You are courteous for a foreigner.”

“How do you know me to be a foreigner, señor?” I asked, surprisedout of my caution.

“If I had not guessed it before, I should know it now,” heanswered, smiling gravely. “Your Castilian tells its own tale.”

I bowed, and was about to pass on, when he addressed me again.

“What is your hurry, young sir? Step in and take a cup of wine with me;it is good.”

I was about to say him nay, when it came into my mind that I had nothing to do,and that perhaps I might learn something from this gossip.

“The day is hot, señor, and I accept.”

He spoke no more, but rising, led me into a courtyard paved with marble in thecentre of which was a basin of water, having vines trained around it. Here werechairs and a little table placed in the shade of the vines. When he had closedthe door of the patioand we were seated, he rang a silver bell thatstood upon the table, and a girl, young and fair, appeared from the house,dressed in a quaint Spanish dress.

“Bring wine,” said my host.

The wine was brought, white wine of Oporto such as I had never tasted before.

“Your health, señor?” And my host stopped, his glass in his hand,and looked at me inquiringly.

“Diego d’Aila,” I answered.

“Humph,” he said. “A Spanish name, or perhaps an imitationSpanish name, for I do not know it, and I have a good head for names.”

“That is my name, to take or to leave, señor?”—And I lookedat him in turn.

“Andres de Fonseca,” he replied bowing, “a physician of thiscity, well known enough, especially among the fair. Well, Señor Diego, I takeyour name, for names are nothing, and at times it is convenient to change them,which is nobody’s business except their owners”. I see that you area stranger in this city—no need to look surprised, señor, one who isfamiliar with a town does not gaze and stare and ask the path of passers-by,nor does a native of Seville walk on the sunny side of the street in summer.And now, if you will not think me impertinent, I will ask you what can be thebusiness of so healthy a young man with my rival yonder?” And he noddedtowards the house of the famous physician.

“A man’s business, like his name, is his own affair, señor,”I answered, setting my host down in my mind as one of those who disgrace ourart by plying openly for patients that they may capture their fees.“Still, I will tell you. I am also a physician, though not yet fullyqualified, and I seek a place where I may help some doctor of repute in hisdaily practice, and thus gain experience and my living with it.”

“Ah is it so? Well, señor, then you will look in vain yonder,” andagain he nodded towards the physician’s house. “Such as he willtake no apprentice without the fee be large indeed; it is not the custom ofthis city.”

“Then I must seek a livelihood elsewhere, or otherwise.”

“I did not say so. Now, señor, let us see what you know of medicine, andwhat is more important, of human nature, for of the first none of us can everknow much, but he who knows the latter will be a leader of men—or ofwomen—who lead the men.”

And without more ado he put me many questions, each of them so shrewd and goingso directly to the heart of the matter in hand, that I marvelled at hissagacity. Some of these questions were medical, dealing chiefly with theailments of women, others were general and dealt more with their characters. Atlength he finished.

“You will do, señor,” he said; “you are a young man of partsand promise, though, as was to be expected from one of your years, you lackexperience. There is stuff in you, señor, and you have a heart, which is a goodthing, for the blunders of a man with a heart often carry him further than thecunning of the cynic; also you have a will and know how to direct it.”

I bowed, and did my best to hold back my satisfaction at his words from showingin my face.

“Still,” he went on, “all this would not cause me to submitto you the offer that I am about to make, for many a prettier fellow thanyourself is after all unlucky, or a fool at the bottom, or bad tempered anddestined to the dogs, as for aught I know you may be also. But I take my chanceof that because you suit me in another way. Perhaps you may scarcely know ityourself, but you have beauty, señor, beauty of a very rare and singular type,which half the ladies of Seville will praise when they come to know you.”

“I am much flattered,” I said, “but might I ask what allthese compliments may mean? To be brief, what is your offer?”

“To be brief then, it is this. I am in need of an assistant who mustpossess all the qualities that I see in you, but most of all one which I canonly guess you to possess—discretion. That assistant would not beill-paid; this house would be at his disposal, and he would have opportunitiesof learning the world such as are given to few. What say you?”

“I say this, señor, that I should wish to know more of the business inwhich I am expected to assist. Your offers sound too liberal, and I fear that Imust earn your bounty by the doing of work that honest men might shrinkfrom.”

“A fair argument, but, as it happens, not quite a correct one. Listen:you have been told that yonder physician, to whose house you went but now, andthese”—here he repeated four or five names—“are thegreatest of their tribe in Seville. It is not so. I am the greatest and therichest, and I do more business than any two of them. Do you know what myearnings have been this day alone? I will tell you; just over twenty-five goldpesos,^[2]more thanall the rest of the profession have taken together, I will wager. You want toknow how I earn so much; you want to know also, why, if I have earned so much,I am not content to rest from my labours. Good, I will tell you. I earn it byministering to the vanities of women and sheltering them from the results oftheir own folly. Has a lady a sore heart, she comes to me for comfort andadvice. Has she pimples on her face, she flies to me to cure them. Has she asecret love affair, it is I who hide her indiscretion; I consult the future forher, I help her to atone the past, I doctor her for imaginary ailments, andoften enough I cure her of real ones. Half the secrets of Seville are in myhands; did I choose to speak I could set a score of noble houses to broil andbloodshed. But I do not speak, I am paid to keep silent; and when I am notpaid, still I keep silent for my credit’s sake. Hundreds of women thinkme their saviour, I know them for my dupes. But mark you, I do not push thisgame too far. A love philtre—of coloured water—I may give at aprice, but not a poisoned rose. These they must seek elsewhere. For the rest,in my way I am honest. I take the world as it comes, that is all, and, as womenwill be fools, I profit by their folly and have grown rich upon it.

[2]About sixty-three pounds sterling.

“Yes, I have grown rich, and yet I cannot stop. I love the money that ispower; but more than all, I love the way of life. Talk of romances andadventure! What romance or adventure is half so wonderful as those that comedaily to my notice? And I play a part in every one of them, and none the less aleading part because I do not shout and strut upon the boards.”

“If all this is so, why do you seek the help of an unknown lad, astranger of whom you know nothing?” I asked bluntly.

“Truly, you lack experience,” the old man answered with a laugh.“Do you then suppose that I should choose one who was notastranger—one who might have ties within this city with which I wasunacquainted. And as for knowing nothing of you, young man, do you think that Ihave followed this strange trade of mine for forty years without learning tojudge at sight? Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself. By the way,the fact that you are deeply enamoured of that maid whom you have left inEngland is a recommendation to me, for whatever follies you may commit, youwill scarcely embarrass me and yourself by suffering your affections to beseriously entangled. Ah! have I astonished you?”

“How do you know?” I began—then ceased.

“How do I know? Why, easily enough. Those boots you wear were made inEngland. I have seen many such when I travelled there; your accent also thoughfaint is English, and twice you have spoken English words when your Castilianfailed you. Then for the maid, is not that a betrothal ring upon your hand? Andwhen I spoke to you of the ladies of this country, my talk did not interest youovermuch as at your age it had done were you heart-whole. Surely also the ladyis fair and tall? Ah! I thought so. I have noticed that men and women lovetheir opposite in colour, no invariable rule indeed, but good for aguess.”

“You are very clever, señor.”

“No, not clever, but trained, as you will be when you have been a year inmy hands, though perchance you do not intend to stop so long in Seville.Perhaps you came here with an object, and wish to pass the time profitably tillit is fulfilled. A good guess again, I think. Well, so be it, I will risk that;object and attainment are often far apart. Do you take my offer?”

“I incline to do so.”

“Then you will take it. Now I have something more to say before we cometo terms. I do not want you to play the part of an apothecary’s drudge.You will figure before the world as my nephew, come from abroad to learn mytrade. You will help me in it indeed, but that is not all your duty. Your partwill be to mix in the life of Seville, and to watch those whom I bid you watch,to drop a word here and a hint there, and in a hundred ways that I shall showyou to draw grist to my mill—and to your own. You must be brilliant andwitty, or sad and learned, as I wish; you must make the most of your person andyour talents, for these go far with my customers. To the hidalgo you must talkof arms, to the lady, of love; but you must never commit yourself beyondredemption. And above all, young man”—and here his manner changedand his face grew stern and almost fierce—“you must never violatemy confidence or the confidence of my clients. On this point I will be quiteopen with you, and I pray you for your own sake to believe what I say, howevermuch you may mistrust the rest. If you break faith with me, you die. Youdie, not by my hand, but you die. That is my price; take it or leave it. Shouldyou leave it and go hence to tell what you have heard this day, even thenmisfortune may overtake you suddenly. Do you understand?”

“I understand. For my own sake I will respect your confidence.”

“Young sir, I like you better than ever. Had you said that you wouldrespect it because it was a confidence, I should have mistrusted you, fordoubtless you feel that secrets communicated so readily have no claim to beheld sacred. Nor have they, but when their violation involves the sad andaccidental end of the violator, it is another matter. Well now, do youaccept?”

“I accept.”

“Good. Your baggage I suppose is at the inn. I will send porters todischarge your score and bring it here. No need for you to go, nephew, let usstop and drink another glass of wine; the sooner we grow intimate the better,nephew.”

It was thus that first I became acquainted with Señor Andres de Fonseca, mybenefactor, the strangest man whom I have ever known. Doubtless any personreading this history would think that I, the narrator, was sowing a plentifulcrop of troubles for myself in having to deal with him, setting him down as arogue of the deepest, such as sometimes, for their own wicked purposes, decoyyoung men to crime and ruin. But it was not so, and this is the strangest partof the strange story. All that Andres de Fonseca told me was true to the veryletter.

He was a gentleman of great talent who had been rendered a little mad bymisfortunes in his early life. As a physician I have never met his master, ifindeed he has one in these times, and as a man versed in the world and moreespecially in the world of women, I have known none to compare with him. He hadtravelled far, and seen much, and he forgot nothing. In part he was a quack,but his quackery always had a meaning in it. He fleeced the foolish, indeed,and even juggled with astronomy, making money out of their superstition; but onthe other hand he did many a kind act without reward. He would make a rich ladypay ten gold pesos for the dyeing of her hair, but often he would nurse somepoor girl through her trouble and ask no charge; yes, and find her honestemployment after it. He who knew all the secrets of Seville never made moneyout of them by threat of exposure, as he said because it would not pay to doso, but really because though he affected to be a selfish knave, at bottom hisheart was honest.

For my own part I found life with him both easy and happy, so far as mine couldbe quite happy. Soon I learned my role and played it well. It was given outthat I was the nephew of the rich old physician Fonseca, whom he was trainingto take his place; and this, together with my own appearance and manners,ensured me a welcome in the best houses of Seville. Here I took that share ofour business which my master could not take, for now he never mixed among thefashion of the city. Money I was supplied with in abundance so that I couldruffle it with the best, but soon it became known that I looked to business aswell as to pleasure. Often and often during some gay ball or carnival, a ladywould glide up to me and ask beneath her breath if Don Andres de Fonseca wouldconsent to see her privately on a matter of some importance, and I would fix anhour then and there. Had it not been for me such patients would have been lostto us, since, for the most part, their timidity had kept them away.

In the same fashion when the festival was ended and I prepared to wendhomewards, now and again a gallant would slip his arm in mine and ask mymaster’s help in some affair of love or honour, or even of the purse.Then I would lead him straight to the old Moorish house where Don Andres satwriting in his velvet robe like some spider in his web, for the most of ourbusiness was done at night; and straight-way the matter would be attended to,to my master’s profit and the satisfaction of all. By degrees it becameknown that though I was so young yet I had discretion, and that nothing whichwent in at my ears came out of my lips; that I neither brawled nor drank norgambled to any length, and that though I was friendly with many fair ladies,there were none who were entitled to know my secrets. Also it became known thatI had some skill in my art of healing, and it was said among the ladies ofSeville that there lived no man in that city so deft at clearing the skin ofblemishes or changing the colour of the hair as old Fonseca’s nephew, andas any one may know this reputation alone was worth a fortune. Thus it cameabout that I was more and more consulted on my own account. In short, thingswent so well with us that in the first six months of my service I added by onethird to the receipts of my master’s practice, large as they had beenbefore, besides lightening his labours not a little.

It was a strange life, and of the things that I saw and learned, could they bewritten, I might make a tale indeed, but they have no part in this history. Forit was as though the smiles and silence with which men and women hide theirthoughts were done away, and their hearts spoke to us in the accents of truth.Now some fair young maid or wife would come to us with confessions ofwickedness that would be thought impossible, did not her story prove itself;the secret murder perchance of a spouse, or a lover, or a rival; now some ageddame who would win a husband in his teens, now some wealthy low-born man orwoman, who desired to buy an alliance with one lacking money, but of nobleblood. Such I did not care to help indeed, but to the love-sick or thelove-deluded I listened with a ready ear, for I had a fellow-feeling with them.Indeed so deep and earnest was my sympathy that more than once I found theunhappy fair ready to transfer their affections to my unworthy self, and infact once things came about so that, had I willed it, I could have married oneof the loveliest and wealthiest noble ladies of Seville.

But I would none of it, who thought of my English Lily by day and night.

CHAPTER VIII
THE SECOND MEETING

It may be thought that while I was employed thus I had forgotten the object ofmy coming to Spain, namely to avenge my mother’s murder on the person ofJuan de Garcia. But this was not so. So soon as I was settled in the house ofAndres de Fonseca I set myself to make inquiries as to de Garcia’swhereabouts with all possible diligence, but without result.

Indeed, when I came to consider the matter coolly it seemed that I had but aslender chance of finding him in this city. He had, indeed, given it out inYarmouth that he was bound for Seville, but no ship bearing the same name ashis had put in at Cadiz or sailed up the Guadalquivir, nor was it likely,having committed murder in England, that he would speak the truth as to hisdestination. Still I searched on. The house where my mother and grandmother hadlived was burned down, and as their mode of life had been retired, after morethan twenty years of change few even remembered their existence. Indeed I onlydiscovered one, an old woman whom I found living in extreme poverty, and whoonce had been my grandmother’s servant and knew my mother well, althoughshe was not in the house at the time of her flight to England. From this womanI gathered some information, though, needless to say, I did not tell her that Iwas the grandson of her old mistress.

It seemed that after my mother fled to England with my father, de Garciapersecuted my grandmother and his aunt with lawsuits and by other means, tillat last she was reduced to beggary, in which condition the villain left her todie. So poor was she indeed, that she was buried in a public grave. After thatthe old woman, my informant, said she had heard that de Garcia had committedsome crime and been forced to flee the country. What the crime was she couldnot remember, but it had happened about fifteen years ago.

All this I learned when I had been about three months in Seville, and though itwas of interest it did not advance me in my search.

Some four or five nights afterwards, as I entered my employer’s house Imet a young woman coming out of the doorway of the patio;she wasthickly veiled and my notice was drawn to her by her tall and beautiful figureand because she was weeping so violently that her body shook with her sobs. Iwas already well accustomed to such sights, for many of those who sought mymaster’s counsel had good cause to weep, and I passed her without remark.But when I was come into the room where he received his patients, I mentionedthat I had met such a person and asked if it was any one whom I knew.

“Ah! nephew,” said Fonseca, who always called me thus by now, andindeed began to treat me with as much affection as though I were really of hisblood, “a sad case, but you do not know her and she is no paying patient.A poor girl of noble birth who had entered religion and taken her vows, when agallant appears, meets her secretly in the convent garden, promises to marryher if she will fly with him, indeed does go through some mummery of marriagewith her—so she says—and the rest of it. Now he has deserted herand she is in trouble, and what is more, should the priests catch her, likelyto learn what it feels like to die by inches in a convent wall. She came to mefor counsel and brought some silver ornaments as the fee. Here they are.”

“You took them!”

“Yes, I took them—I always take a fee, but I gave her back theirweight in gold. What is more, I told her where she might hide from the prieststill the hunt is done with. What I did not like to tell her is that her loveris the greatest villain who ever trod the streets of Seville. What was thegood? She will see little more of him. Hist! here comes the duchess—anastrological case this. Where are the horoscope and the wand, yes, and thecrystal ball? There, shade the lamps, give me the book, and vanish.”

I obeyed, and presently met the great lady, a stout woman attended by a duenna,gliding fearfully through the darkened archways to learn the answer of thestars and pay many good pesos for it, and the sight of her made me laugh somuch that I forgot quickly about the other lady and her woes.

And now I must tell how I met my cousin and my enemy de Garcia for the secondtime. Two days after my meeting with the veiled lady it chanced that I waswandering towards midnight through a lonely part of the old city littlefrequented by passers-by. It was scarcely safe to be thus alone in such a placeand hour, but the business with which I had been charged by my master was onethat must be carried out unattended. Also I had no enemies whom I knew of, andwas armed with the very sword that I had taken from de Garcia in the lane atDitchingham, the sword that had slain my mother, and which I bore in the hopethat it might serve to avenge her. In the use of this weapon I had grown expertenough by now, for every morning I took lessons in the art of fence.

My business being done I was walking slowly homeward, and as I went I fell tothinking of the strangeness of my present life and of how far it differed frommy boyhood in the valley of the Waveney, and of many other things. And then Ithought of Lily and wondered how her days passed, and if my brother Geoffreypersecuted her to marry him, and whether or no she would resist hisimportunities and her father’s. And so as I walked musing I came to awater-gate that opened on to the Guadalquivir, and leaning upon the coping of alow wall I rested there idly to consider the beauty of the night. In truth itwas a lovely night, for across all these years I remember it. Let those whohave seen it say if they know any prospect more beautiful than the sight of theAugust moon shining on the broad waters of the Guadalquivir and the clusteringhabitations of the ancient city.

Now as I leaned upon the wall and looked, I saw a man pass up the steps besideme and go on into the shadow of the street. I took no note of him tillpresently I heard a murmur of distant voices, and turning my head I discoveredthat the man was in conversation with a woman whom he had met at the head ofthe path that ran down to the water-gate. Doubtless it was a lovers’meeting, and since such sights are of interest to all, and more especially tothe young, I watched the pair. Soon I learned that there was little oftenderness in this tryst, at least on the part of the gallant, who drewcontinually backwards toward me as though he would seek the boat by whichdoubtless he had come, and I marvelled at this, for the moonlight shone uponthe woman’s face, and even at that distance I could see that it was veryfair. The man’s face I could not see however, since his back was towardsme for the most part, moreover he wore a large sombrerothat shaded it.Now they came nearer to me, the man always drawing backward and the womanalways following, till at length they were within earshot. The woman waspleading with the man.

“Surely you will not desert me,” she said, “after marrying meand all that you have sworn; you will not have the heart to desert me. Iabandoned everything for you. I am in great danger. I—” and hereher voice fell so that I could not catch her words.

Then he spoke. “Fairest, now as always I adore you. But we must partawhile. You owe me much, Isabella. I have rescued you from the grave, I havetaught you what it is to live and love. Doubtless with your advantages andcharms, your great charms, you will profit by the lesson. Money I cannot giveyou, for I have none to spare, but I have endowed you with experience that ismore valuable by far. This is our farewell for awhile and I am brokenhearted.Yet

‘’Neath fairer skies
Shine other eyes,’

and I—” and again he spoke so low that I could not catch his words.

As he talked on, all my body began to tremble. The scene was moving indeed, butit was not that which stirred me so deeply, it was the man’s voice andbearing that reminded me—no, it could scarcely be!

“Oh! you will not be so cruel,” said the lady, “to leave me,your wife, thus alone and in such sore trouble and danger. Take me with you,Juan, I beseech you!” and she caught him by the arm and clung to him.

He shook her from him somewhat roughly, and as he did so his wide hat fell tothe ground so that the moonlight shone upon his face. By Heaven! it washe—Juan de Garcia and no other! I could not be mistaken. There was thedeeply carved, cruel face, the high forehead with the scar on it, the thinsneering mouth, the peaked beard and curling hair. Chance had given him into myhand, and I would kill him or he should kill me.

I took three paces and stood before him, drawing my sword as I came.

“What, my dove, have you a bully at hand?” he said stepping backastonished. “Your business, señor? Are you here to champion beauty indistress?”

“I am here, Juan de Garcia, to avenge a murdered woman. Do you remember acertain river bank away in England, where you chanced to meet a lady you hadknown, and to leave her dead? Or if you have forgotten, perhaps at least youwill remember this, which I carry that it may kill you,” and I flashedthe sword that had been his before his eyes.

“Mother of God! It is the English boy who—” and he stopped.

“It is Thomas Wingfield who beat and bound you, and who now purposes tofinish what he began yonder as he has sworn. Draw, or, Juan de Garcia, I willstab you where you stand.”

De Garcia heard this speech, that to-day seems to me to smack of the theatre,though it was spoken in grimmest earnest, and his face grew like the face of atrapped wolf. Yet I saw that he had no mind to fight, not because of cowardice,for to do him justice he was no coward, but because of superstition. He fearedto fight with me since, as I learned afterwards, he believed that he would meethis end at my hand, and it was for this reason chiefly that he strove to killme when first we met.

“The duello has its laws, señor,” he said courteously. “It isnot usual to fight thus unseconded and in the presence of a woman. If youbelieve that you have any grievance against me—though I know not of whatyou rave, or the name by which you call me—I will meet you where and whenyou will.” And all the while he looked over his shoulder seeking some wayof escape.

“You will meet me now,” I answered. “Draw or I strike!”

Then he drew, and we fell to it desperately enough, till the sparks flew,indeed, and the rattle of steel upon steel rang down the quiet street. At firsthe had somewhat the better of me, for my hate made me wild in my play, but soonI settled to the work and grew cooler. I meant to kill him—more, I knewthat I should kill him if none came between us. He was still a better swordsmanthan I, who, till I fought with him in the lane at Ditchingham, had never evenseen one of these Spanish rapiers, but I had the youth and the right on myside, as also I had an eye like a hawk’s and a wrist of steel.

Slowly I pressed him back, and ever my play grew closer and better and hisbecame wilder. Now I had touched him twice, once in the face, and I held himwith his back against the wall of the way that led down to the water-gate, andit had come to this, that he scarcely strove to thrust at me at all, but stoodon his defence waiting till I should tire. Then, when victory was in my handdisaster overtook me, for the woman, who had been watching bewildered, saw thather faithless lover was in danger of death and straightway seized me frombehind, at the same time sending up shriek after shriek for help. I shook herfrom me quickly enough, but not before de Garcia, seeing his advantage, haddealt me a coward’s thrust that took me in the right shoulder and halfcrippled me, so that in my turn I must stand on my defence if I would keep mylife in me. Meanwhile the shrieks had been heard, and of a sudden the watchcame running round the corner whistling for help. De Garcia saw them, anddisengaging suddenly, turned and ran for the water-gate, the lady alsovanishing, whither I do not know.

Now the watch was on me, and their leader came at me to seize me, holding alantern in his hand. I struck it with the handle of the sword, so that it fellupon the roadway, where it blazed up like a bonfire. Then I turned also andfled, for I did not wish to be dragged before the magistrates of the city as abrawler, and in my desire to escape I forgot that de Garcia was escaping also.Away I went and three of the watch after me, but they were stout and scant ofbreath, and by the time that I had run three furlongs I distanced them. Ihalted to get my breath and remembered that I had lost de Garcia and did notknow when I should find him again. At first I was minded to return and seekhim, but reflection told me that by now it would be useless, also that the endof it might be that I should fall into the hands of the watch, who would knowme by my wound, which began to pain me. So I went homeward cursing my fortune,and the woman who had clasped me from behind just as I was about to send thedeath-thrust home, and also my lack of skill which had delayed that thrust solong. Twice I might have made it and twice I had waited, being overcautious andover-anxious to be sure, and now I had lost my chance, and might bide many aday before it came again.

How should I find him in this great city? Doubtless, though I had not thoughtof it, de Garcia passed under some feigned name as he had done at Yarmouth. Itwas bitter indeed to have been so near to vengeance and to have missed it.

By now I was at home and bethought me that I should do well to go to Fonseca,my master, and ask his help. Hitherto I had said nothing of this matter to him,for I have always loved to keep my own counsel, and as yet I had not spoken ofmy past even to him. Going to the room where he was accustomed to receivepatients, I found he had retired to rest, leaving orders that I was not toawake him this night as he was weary. So I bound up my hurt after a fashion andsought my bed also, very ill-satisfied with my fortune.

On the morrow I went to my master’s chamber where he still lay abed,having been seized by a sudden weakness that was the beginning of the illnesswhich ended in his death. As I mixed a draught for him he noticed that myshoulder was hurt and asked me what had happened. This gave me my opportunity,which I was not slow to take.

“Have you patience to listen to a story?” I said, “for Iwould seek your help.”

“Ah!” he answered, “it is the old case, the physician cannotheal himself. Speak on, nephew.”

Then I sat down by the bed and told him all, keeping nothing back. I told himthe history of my mother and my father’s courtship, of my own childhood,of the murder of my mother by de Garcia, and of the oath that I had sworn to beavenged upon him. Lastly I told him of what had happened upon the previousnight and how my enemy had evaded me. All the while that I was speakingFonseca, wrapped in a rich Moorish robe, sat up in the bed holding his kneesbeneath his chin, and watching my face with his keen eyes. But he spoke no wordand made no sign till I had finished the tale.

“You are strangely foolish, nephew,” he said at length. “Forthe most part youth fails through rashness, but you err by over-caution. Byover-caution in your fence you lost your chance last night, and so byover-caution in hiding this tale from me you have lost a far greateropportunity. What, have you not seen me give counsel in many such matters, andhave you ever known me to betray the confidence even of the veriest stranger?Why then did you fear for yours?”

“I do not know,” I answered, “but I thought that first Iwould search for myself.”

“Pride goeth before a fall, nephew. Now listen: had I known this historya month ago, by now de Garcia had perished miserably, and not by your hand, butby that of the law. I have been acquainted with the man from his childhood, andknow enough to hang him twice over did I choose to speak. More, I knew yourmother, boy, and now I see that it was the likeness in your face to hers thathaunted me, for from the first it was familiar. It was I also who bribed thekeepers of the Holy Office to let your father loose, though, as it chanced, Inever saw him, and arranged his flight. Since then, I have had de Garciathrough my hands some four or five times, now under this name and now underthat. Once even he came to me as a client, but the villainy that he would haveworked was too black for me to touch. This man is the wickedest whom I haveknown in Seville, and that is saying much, also he is the cleverest and themost revengeful. He lives by vice for vice, and there are many deaths upon hishands. But he has never prospered in his evil-doing, and to-day he is but anadventurer without a name, who lives by blackmail, and by ruining women that hemay rob them at his leisure. Give me those books from the strong box yonder,and I will tell you of this de Garcia.”

I did as he bade me, bringing the heavy parchment volumes, each bound in vellumand written in cipher.

“These are my records,” he said, “though none can read themexcept myself. Now for the index. Ah! here it is. Give me volume three, andopen it at page two hundred and one.”

I obeyed, laying the book on the bed before him, and he began to read thecrabbed marks as easily as though they were good black-letter.

“De Garcia—Juan. Height, appearance, family, false names, and soon. This is it—history. Now listen.”

Then came some two pages of closely written matter, expressed in secret signsthat Fonseca translated as he read. It was brief enough, but such a record asit contained I have never heard before nor since. Here, set out against thisone man’s name, was well nigh every wickedness of which a human beingcould be capable, carried through by him to gratify his appetites andrevengeful hate, and to provide himself with gold.

In that black list were two murders: one of a rival by the knife, and one of amistress by poison. And there were other things even worse, too shameful,indeed, to be written.

“Doubtless there is more that has not come beneath my notice,” saidFonseca coolly, “but these things I know for truth, and one of themurders could be proved against him were he captured. Stay, give me ink, I mustadd to the record.”

And he wrote in his cipher: “In May, 1517, the said de Garcia sailed toEngland on a trading voyage, and there, in the parish of Ditchingham, in thecounty of Norfolk, he murdered Luisa Wingfield, spoken of above as Luisa deGarcia, his cousin, to whom he was once betrothed. In September of the sameyear, or previously, under cover of a false marriage, he decoyed and desertedone Donna Isabella of the noble family of Siguenza, a nun in a religious housein this city.”

“What!” I exclaimed, “is the girl who came to seek your helptwo nights since the same that de Garcia deserted?”

“The very same, nephew. It was she whom you heard pleading with him lastnight. Had I known two days ago what I know to-day, by now this villain hadbeen safe in prison. But perhaps it is not yet too late. I am ill, but I willrise and see to it. Leave it to me, nephew. Go, nurse yourself, and leave it tome; if anything may be done I can do it. Stay, bid a messenger be ready. Thisevening I shall know whatever there is to be known.”

That night Fonseca sent for me again.

“I have made inquiries,” he said. “I have even warned theofficers of justice for the first time for many years, and they are hunting deGarcia as bloodhounds hunt a slave. But nothing can be heard of him. He hasvanished and left no trace. To-night I write to Cadiz, for he may have fledthere down the river. One thing I have discovered, however. The Señora Isabellawas caught by the watch, and being recognised as having escaped from a convent,she was handed over to the executories of the Holy Office, that her case may beinvestigated, or in other words, should her fault be proved, to death.”

“Can she be rescued?”

“Impossible. Had she followed my counsel she would never have beentaken.”

“Can she be communicated with?”

“No. Twenty years ago it might have been managed, now the Office isstricter and purer. Gold has no power there. We shall never see or hear of heragain, unless, indeed, it is at the hour of her death, when, should she chooseto speak with me, the indulgence may possibly be granted to her, though I doubtit. But it is not likely that she will wish to do so. Should she succeed inhiding her disgrace, she may escape; but it is not probable. Do not look sosad, nephew, religion must have its sacrifices. Perchance it is better for herto die thus than to live for many years dead in life. She can die but once. Mayher blood lie heavy on de Garcia’s head!”

“Amen!” I answered.

CHAPTER IX
THOMAS BECOMES RICH

For many months we heard no more of de Garcia or of Isabella de Siguenza. Bothhad vanished leaving no sign, and we searched for them in vain. As for me Ifell back into my former way of life of assistant to Fonseca, posing before theworld as his nephew. But it came about that from the night of my duel with themurderer, my master’s health declined steadily through the action of awasting disease of the liver which baffled all skill, so that within eightmonths of that time he lay almost bedridden and at the point of death. His mindindeed remained quite clear, and on occasions he would even receive those whocame to consult him, reclining on a chair and wrapped in his embroidered robe.But the hand of death lay on him, and he knew that it was so. As the weeks wentby he grew more and more attached to me, till at length, had I been his son, hecould not have treated me with a greater affection, while for my part I didwhat lay in my power to lessen his sufferings, for he would let no otherphysician near him.

At length when he had grown very feeble he expressed a desire to see a notary.The man he named was sent for and remained closeted with him for an hour ormore, when he left for a while to return with several of his clerks, whoaccompanied him to my master’s room, from which I was excluded. Presentlythey all went away, bearing some parchments with them.

That evening Fonseca sent for me. I found him very weak, but cheerful and fullof talk.

“Come here, nephew,” he said, “I have had a busy day. I havebeen busy all my life through, and it would not be well to grow idle at thelast. Do you know what I have been doing this day?”

I shook my head.

“I will tell you. I have been making my will—there is something toleave; not so very much, but still something.”

“Do not talk of wills,” I said; “I trust that you may livefor many years.”

He laughed. “You must think badly of my case, nephew, when you think thatI can be deceived thus. I am about to die as you know well, and I do not feardeath. My life has been prosperous but not happy, for it was blighted in itsspring—no matter how. The story is an old one and not worth telling;moreover, whichever way it had read, it had all been one now in the hour ofdeath. We must travel our journey each of us; what does it matter if the roadhas been good or bad when we have reached the goal? For my part religionneither comforts nor frightens me now at the last. I will stand or fall uponthe record of my life. I have done evil in it and I have done good; the evil Ihave done because nature and temptation have been too strong for me at times,the good also because my heart prompted me to it. Well, it is finished, andafter all death cannot be so terrible, seeing that every human being is born toundergo it, together with all living things. Whatever else is false, I holdthis to be true, that God exists and is more merciful than those who preach Himwould have us to believe.” And he ceased exhausted.

Often since then I have thought of his words, and I still think of them nowthat my own hour is so near. As will be seen Fonseca was a fatalist, a beliefwhich I do not altogether share, holding as I do that within certain limits weare allowed to shape our own characters and destinies. But his last sayings Ibelieve to be true. God is merciful, and death is not terrible either in itsact or in its consequence.

Presently Fonseca spoke again. “Why do you lead me to talk of suchthings? They weary me and I have little time. I was telling of my will. Nephew,listen. Except certain sums that I have given to be spent incharities—not in masses, mind you—I have left you all Ipossess.”

“You have left it to me!” I said astonished.

“Yes, nephew, to you. Why not? I have no relations living and I havelearned to love you, I who thought that I could never care again for any man orwoman or child. I am grateful to you, who have proved to me that my heart isnot dead, take what I give you as a mark of my gratitude.”

Now I began to stammer my thanks, but he stopped me. “The sum that youwill inherit, nephew, amounts in all to about five thousand gold pesos, orperhaps twelve thousand of your English pounds, enough for a young man to beginlife on, even with a wife. Indeed there in England it may well be held a greatfortune, and I think that your betrothed’s father will make no moreobjection to you as a son-in-law. Also there is this house and all that itcontains; the library and the silver are valuable, and you will do well to keepthem. All is left to you with the fullest formality, so that no question canarise as to your right to take it; indeed, foreseeing my end, I have of latecalled in my moneys, and for the most part the gold lies in strong boxes in thesecret cupboard in the wall yonder that you know of. It would have been morehad I known you some years ago, for then, thinking that I grew too rich who waswithout an heir, I gave away as much as what remains in acts of mercy and inproviding refuge for the homeless and the suffering. Thomas Wingfield, for themost part this money has come to me as the fruit of human folly and humanwretchedness, frailty and sin. Use it for the purposes of wisdom and theadvancing of right and liberty. May it prosper you, and remind you of me, yourold master, the Spanish quack, till at last you pass it on to your children orthe poor. And now one word more. If your conscience will let you, abandon thepursuit of de Garcia. Take your fortune and go with it to England; wed thatmaid whom you desire, and follow after happiness in whatever way seems best toyou. Who are you that you should mete out vengeance on this knave de Garcia?Let him be, and he will avenge himself upon himself. Otherwise you may undergomuch toil and danger, and in the end lose love, and life, and fortune at ablow.”

“But I have sworn to kill him,” I answered, “and how can Ibreak so solemn an oath? How could I sit at home in peace beneath the burden ofsuch shame?”

“I do not know; it is not for me to judge. You must do as you wish, butin the doing of it, it may happen that you will fall into greater shames thanthis. You have fought the man and he has escaped you. Let him go if you arewise. Now bend down and kiss me, and bid me farewell. I do not desire that youshould see me die, and my death is near. I cannot tell if we shall meet againwhen in your turn you have lain as I lie now, or if we shape our course fordifferent stars. If so, farewell for ever.”

Then I leant down and kissed him on the forehead, and as I did so I wept, fornot till this hour did I learn how truly I had come to love him, so truly thatit seemed to me as though my father lay there dying.

“Weep not,” he said, “for all our life is but a parting. OnceI had a son like you, and ours was the bitterest of farewells. Now I go to seekfor him again who could not come back to me, so weep not because I die.Good-bye, Thomas Wingfield. May God prosper and protect you! Now go!”

So I went weeping, and that night, before the dawn, all was over with Andres deFonseca. They told me that he was conscious to the end and died murmuring thename of that son of whom he spoke in his last words to me.

What was the history of this son, or of Fonseca himself, I never learned, forlike an Indian he hid his trail as step by step he wandered down the path oflife. He never spoke of his past, and in all the books and documents that heleft behind him there is no allusion to it. Once, some years ago, I readthrough the cipher volumes of records that I have spoken of, and of which hegave me the key before he died. They stand before me on the shelf as I write,and in them are many histories of shame, sorrow, and evil, of faith deluded andinnocence betrayed, of the cruelty of priests, of avarice triumphant over love,and of love triumphant over death—enough, indeed, to furnish half ahundred of true romances. But among these chronicles of a generation now pastand forgotten, there is no mention of Fonseca’s own name and no hint ofhis own story. It is lost for ever, and perhaps this is well. So died mybenefactor and best friend.

When he was made ready for burial I went in to see him and he looked calm andbeautiful in his death sleep. Then it was that she who had arrayed him for thegrave handed to me two portraits most delicately painted on ivory and set ingold, which had been found about his neck. I have them yet. One is of the headof a lady with a sweet and wistful countenance, and the other the face of adead youth also beautiful, but very sad. Doubtless they were mother and son,but I know no more about them.

On the morrow I buried Andres de Fonseca, but with no pomp, for he had saidthat he wished as little money as possible spent upon his dead body, andreturned to the house to meet the notaries. Then the seals were broken and theparchments read and I was put in full possession of the dead man’swealth, and having deducted such sums as were payable for dues, legacies, andfees, the notaries left me bowing humbly, for was I not rich? Yes, I was rich,wealth had come to me without effort, and I had reason to desire it, yet thiswas the saddest night that I had passed since I set foot in Spain, for my mindwas filled with doubts and sorrow, and moreover my loneliness got a hold of me.But sad as it might be, it was destined to seem yet more sorrowful before themorning. For as I sat making pretence to eat, a servant came to me saying thata woman waited in the outer room who had asked to see his late master. Guessingthat this was some client who had not heard of Fonseca’s death I wasabout to order that she should be dismissed, then bethought me that I might beof service to her or at the least forget some of my own trouble in listening tohers. So I bade him bring her in. Presently she came, a tall woman wrapped in adark cloak that hid her face. I bowed and motioned to her to be seated, whensuddenly she started and spoke.

“I asked to see Don Andres de Fonseca,” she said in a low quickvoice. “You are not he, señor.”

“Andres de Fonseca was buried to-day,” I answered. “I was hisassistant in his business and am his heir. If I can serve you in any way I amat your disposal.”

“You are young—very young,” she murmured confusedly,“and the matter is terrible and urgent. How can I trust you?”

“It is for you to judge, señora.”

She thought a while, then drew off her cloak, displaying the robes of a nun.

“Listen,” she said. “I must do many a penance for thisnight’s work, and very hardly have I won leave to come hither upon anerrand of mercy. Now I cannot go back empty-handed, so I must trust you. Butfirst swear by thine blessed Mother of God that you will not betray me.”

“I give you my word,” I answered; “if that is not enough, letus end this talk.”

“Do not be angry with me,” she pleaded; “I have not left myconvent walls for many years and I am distraught with grief. I seek a poison ofthe deadliest. I will pay well for it.”

“I am not the tool of murderers,” I answered. “For whatpurpose do you wish the poison?”

“Oh! I must tell you—yet how can I? In our convent there diesto-night a woman young and fair, almost a girl indeed, who has broken the vowsshe took. She dies to-night with her babe—thus, oh God, thus! by beingbuilt alive into the foundations of the house she has disgraced. It is thejudgment that has been passed upon her, judgment without forgiveness orreprieve. I am the abbess of this convent—ask not its name ormine—and I love this sinner as though she were my daughter. I haveobtained this much of mercy for her because of my faithful services to thechurch and by secret influence, that when I give her the cup of water beforethe work is done, I may mix poison with it and touch the lips of the babe withpoison, so that their end is swift. I may do this and yet have no sin upon mysoul. I have my pardon under seal. Help me then to be an innocent murderess,and to save this sinner from her last agonies on earth.”

I cannot set down the feelings with which I listened to this tale of horror,for words could not carry them. I stood aghast seeking an answer, and adreadful thought entered my mind.

“Is this woman named Isabella de Siguenza?” I asked.

“That name was hers in the world,” she answered, “though howyou know it I cannot guess.”

“We know many things in this house, mother. Say now, can this Isabella besaved by money or by interest?”

“It is impossible; her sentence has been confirmed by the Tribunal ofMercy. She must die and within two hours. Will you not give the poison?”

“I cannot give it unless I know its purpose, mother. This may be a barrentale, and the medicine might be used in such a fashion that I should fallbeneath the law. At one price only can I give it, and it is that I am there tosee it used.”

She thought a while and answered: “It may be done, for as it chances thewording of my absolution will cover it. But you must come cowled as a priest,that those who carry out the sentence may know nothing. Still others will knowand I warn you that should you speak of the matter you yourself will meet withmisfortune. The Church avenges itself on those who betray its secrets,señor.”

“As one day its secrets will avenge themselves upon the Church,” Ianswered bitterly. “And now let me seek a fitting drug—one that isswift, yet not too swift, lest your hounds should see themselves baffled of theprey before all their devilry is done. Here is something that will do thework,” and I held up a phial that I drew from a case of such medicines.“Come, veil yourself, mother, and let us be gone upon this ‘errandof mercy.’”

She obeyed, and presently we left the house and walked away swiftly through thecrowded streets till we came to the ancient part of the city along theriver’s edge. Here the woman led me to a wharf where a boat was inwaiting for her. We entered it, and were rowed for a mile or more up the streamtill the boat halted at a landing-place beneath a high wall. Leaving it, wecame to a door in the wall on which my companion knocked thrice. Presently ashutter in the woodwork was drawn, and a white face peeped through the gratingand spoke. My companion answered in a low voice, and after some delay the doorwas opened, and I found myself in a large walled garden planted with orangetrees. Then the abbess spoke to me.

“I have led you to our house,” she said. “If you know whereyou are, and what its name may be, for your own sake I pray you forget it whenyou leave these doors.”

I made no answer, but looked round the dim and dewy garden.

Here it was doubtless that de Garcia had met that unfortunate who must die thisnight. A walk of a hundred paces brought us to another door in the wall of along low building of Moorish style. Here the knocking and the questioning wererepeated at more length. Then the door was opened, and I found myself in apassage, ill lighted, long and narrow, in the depths of which I could see thefigures of nuns flitting to and fro like bats in a tomb. The abbess walked downthe passage till she came to a door on the right which she opened. It led intoa cell, and here she left me in the dark. For ten minutes or more I stayedthere, a prey to thoughts that I had rather forget. At length the door openedagain, and she came in, followed by a tall priest whose face I could not see,for he was dressed in the white robe and hood of the Dominicans that leftnothing visible except his eyes.

“Greeting, my son,” he said, when he had scanned me for a while.“The abbess mother has told me of your errand. You are full young forsuch a task.”

“Were I old I should not love it better, father. You know the case. I amasked to provide a deadly drug for a certain merciful purpose. I have providedthat drug, but I must be there to see that it is put to proper use.”

“You are very cautious, my son. The Church is no murderess. This womanmust die because her sin is flagrant, and of late such wickedness has becomecommon. Therefore, after much thought and prayer, and many searchings to find ameans of mercy, she is condemned to death by those whose names are too high tobe spoken. I, alas, am here to see the sentence carried out with a certainmitigation which has been allowed by the mercy of her chief judge. It seemsthat your presence is needful to this act of love, therefore I suffer it. Themother abbess has warned you that evil dogs the feet of those who reveal thesecrets of the Church. For your own sake I pray you to lay that warning toheart.”

“I am no babbler, father, so the caution is not needed. One word more.This visit should be well feed, the medicine is costly.”

“Fear not, physician,” the monk answered with a note of scorn inhis voice; “name your sum, it shall be paid to you.”

“I ask no money, father. Indeed I would pay much to be far away to-night.I ask only that I may be allowed to speak with this girl before shedies.”

“What!” he said, starting, “surely you are not that wickedman? If so, you are bold indeed to risk the sharing of her fate.”

“No, father, I am not that man. I never saw Isabella de Siguenza exceptonce, and I have never spoken to her. I am not the man who tricked her but Iknow him; he is named Juan de Garcia.”

“Ah!” he said quickly, “she would never tell his real name,even under threat of torture. Poor erring soul, she could be faithful in herunfaith. Of what would you speak to her?”

“I wish to ask her whither this man has gone. He is my enemy, and I wouldfollow him as I have already followed him far. He has done worse by me and minethan by this poor girl even. Grant my request, father, that I may be able towork my vengeance on him, and with mine the Church’s also.”

“‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord; ‘I willrepay.’ Yet it may be, son, that the Lord will choose you as theinstrument of his wrath. An opportunity shall be given you to speak with her.Now put on this dress”—and he handed me a white Dominican hood androbe—“and follow me.”

“First,” I said, “let me give this medicine to the abbess,for I will have no hand in its administering. Take it, mother, and when thetime comes, pour the contents of the phial into a cup of water. Then, havingtouched the mouth and tongue of the babe with the fluid, give it to the motherto drink and be sure that she does drink it. Before the bricks are built upabout them both will sleep sound, never to wake again.”

“I will do it,” murmured the abbess; “having absolution Iwill be bold, and do it for love and mercy’s sake!”

“Your heart is too soft, sister. Justice ismercy,” said themonk with a sigh. “Alas for the frailty of the flesh that wars againstthe spirit!”

Then I clothed myself in the ghastly looking dress, and they took lamps andmotioned to me to follow them.

CHAPTER X
THE PASSING OF ISABELLA DE SIGUENZA

Silently we went down the long passage, and as we went I saw the eyes of thedwellers in this living tomb watch us pass through the gratings of their celldoors. Little wonder that the woman about to die had striven to escape fromsuch a home back to the world of life and love! Yet for that crime she mustperish. Surely God will remember the doings of such men as these priests, andthe nation that fosters them. And, in deed, He does remember, for where is thesplendour of Spain to-day, and where are the cruel rites she gloried in? Herein England their fetters are broken for ever, and in striving to bind them fastupon us free Englishmen she is broken also—never to be whole again.

At the far end of the passage we found a stair down which we passed. At itsfoot was an iron-bound door that the monk unlocked and locked again upon thefurther side. Then came another passage hollowed in the thickness of the wall,and a second door, and we were in the place of death.

It was a vault low and damp, and the waters of the river washed its outer wall,for I could hear their murmuring in the silence. Perhaps the place may havemeasured ten paces in length by eight broad. For the rest its roof wassupported by massive columns, and on one side there was a second door that ledto a prison cell. At the further end of this gloomy den, that was dimly lightedby torches and lamps, two men with hooded heads, and draped in coarse blackgowns, were at work, silently mixing lime that sent up a hot steam upon thestagnant air. By their sides were squares of dressed stone ranged neatlyagainst the end of the vault, and before them was a niche cut in the thicknessof the wall itself, shaped like a large coffin set upon its smaller end. Infront of this niche was placed a massive chair of chestnut wood. I noticed alsothat two other such coffin-shaped niches had been cut in this same wall, andfilled in with similar blocks of whitish stone. On the face of each was a dategraved in deep letters. One had been sealed up some thirty years before, andone hard upon a hundred.

These two men were the only occupants of the vault when we entered it, butpresently a sound of soft and solemn singing stole down the second passage.Then the door was opened, the mason monks ceased labouring at the heap of lime,and the sound of singing grew louder so that I could catch the refrain. It wasthat of a Latin hymn for the dying. Next through the open door came the choir,eight veiled nuns walking two by two, and ranging themselves on either side ofthe vault they ceased their singing. After them followed the doomed woman,guarded by two more nuns, and last of all a priest bearing a crucifix. This manwore a black robe, and his thin half-frenzied face was uncovered. All these andother things I noticed and remembered, yet at the time it seemed to me that Isaw nothing except the figure of the victim. I knew her again, although I hadseen her but once in the moonlight. She was changed indeed, her lovely face wasfuller and the great tormented eyes shone like stars against its waxen pallor,relieved by the carmine of her lips alone. Still it was the same face that someeight months before I had seen lifted in entreaty to her false lover. Now hertall shape was wrapped about with grave clothes over which her black hairstreamed, and in her arms she bore a sleeping babe that from time to time shepressed convulsively to her breast.

On the threshold of her tomb Isabella de Siguenza paused and looked roundwildly as though for help, scanning each of the silent watchers to find afriend among them. Then her eye fell upon the niche and the heap of smokinglime and the men who guarded it, and she shuddered and would have fallen hadnot those who attended her led her to the chair and placed her in it—aliving corpse.

Now the dreadful rites began. The Dominican father stood before her and recitedher offence, and the sentence that had been passed upon her, which doomed her,“to be left alone with God and the child of your sin, that He may dealwith you as He sees fit.“^[3]To all of this she seemed to pay no heed, nor to the exhortation that followed.At length he ceased with a sigh, and turning to me said:

“Draw near to this sinner, brother, and speak with her before it is toolate.”

[3]Lest such cruelty should seem impossible and unprecedented, the writer maymention that in the museum of the city of Mexico, he has seen the desiccatedbody of a young woman, which was found immured in the walls of a religiousbuilding. With it is the body of an infant. Although the exact cause of herexecution remains a matter of conjecture, there can be no doubt as to themanner of her death, for in addition to other evidences, the marks of the ropewith which her limbs were bound in life are still distinctly visible. Such inthose days were the mercies of religion!

Then he bade all present gather themselves at the far end of the vault that ourtalk might not be overheard, and they did so without wonder, thinking doubtlessthat I was a monk sent to confess the doomed woman.

So I drew near with a beating heart, and bending over her I spoke in her ear.

“Listen to me, Isabella de Siguenza!” I said; and as I uttered thename she started wildly. “Where is that de Garcia who deceived anddeserted you?”

“How have you learnt his true name?” she answered. “Not eventorture would have wrung it from me as you know.”

“I am no monk and I know nothing. I am that man who fought with de Garciaon the night when you were taken, and who would have killed him had you notseized me.”

“At the least I saved him, that is my comfort now.”

“Isabella de Siguenza,” I said, “I am your friend, the bestyou ever had and the last, as you shall learn presently. Tell me where this manis, for there is that between us which must be settled.”

“If you are my friend, weary me no more. I do not know where he is.Months ago he went whither you will scarcely follow, to the furthest Indies;but you will never find him there.”

“It may still be that I shall, and if it should so chance, say have youany message for this man?”

“None—yes, this. Tell him how we died, his child and hiswife—tell him that I did my best to hide his name from the priests lestsome like fate should befall him.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. No, it is not all. Tell him that I passed away loving andforgiving.”

“My time is short,” I said; “awake and listen!” forhaving spoken thus she seemed to be sinking into a lethargy. “I was theassistant of that Andres de Fonseca whose counsel you put aside to your ruin,and I have given a certain drug to the abbess yonder. When she offers you thecup of water, see that you drink and deep, you and the child. If so none shallever die more happily. Do you understand?”

“Yes—yes,” she gasped, “and may blessings rest upon youfor the gift. Now I am no more afraid—for I have long desired todie—it was the way I feared.”

“Then farewell, and God be with you, unhappy woman.”

“Farewell,” she answered softly, “but call me not unhappy whoam about to die thus easily with that I love.” And she glanced at thesleeping babe.

Then I drew back and stood with bent head, speaking no word. Now the Dominicanmotioned to all to take the places where they had stood before and asked her:

“Erring sister, have you aught to say before you are silent forever?”

“Yes,” she answered in a clear, sweet voice, that never evenquavered, so bold had she become since she learned that her death would beswift and easy. “Yes, I have this to say, that I go to my end with aclean heart, for if I have sinned it is against custom and not against God. Ibroke the vows indeed, but I was forced to take those vows, and, therefore,they did not bind. I was a woman born for light and love, and yet I was thrustinto the darkness of this cloister, there to wither dead in life. And so Ibroke the vows, and I am glad that I have broken them, though it has brought meto this. If I was deceived and my marriage is no marriage before the law asthey tell me now, I knew nothing of it, therefore to me it is still valid andholy and on my soul there rests no stain. At the least I have lived, and forsome few hours I have been wife and mother, and it is as well to die swiftly inthis cell that your mercy has prepared, as more slowly in those above. And nowfor you—I tell you that your wickedness shall find you out, you who dareto say to God’s children—‘Ye shall not love,’ and towork murder on them because they will not listen. It shall find you out I say,and not only you but the Church you serve. Both priest and Church shall bebroken together and shall be a scorn in the mouths of men to come.”

“She is distraught,” said the Dominican as a sigh of fear andwonder went round the vault, “and blasphemes in her madness. Forget herwords. Shrive her, brother, swiftly ere she adds to them.”

Then the black-robed, keen-eyed priest came to her, and holding the crossbefore her face, began to mutter I know not what. But she rose from the chairand thrust the crucifix aside.

“Peace!” she said, “I will not be shriven by such as you. Itake my sins to God and not to you—you who do murder in the name ofChrist.”

The fanatic heard and a fury took him.

“Then go unshriven down to hell, you—” and he named her byill names and struck her in the face with the ivory crucifix.

The Dominican bade him cease his revilings angrily enough, but Isabella deSiguenza wiped her bruised brow and laughed aloud a dreadful laugh to hear.

“Now I see that you are a coward also,” she said. “Priest,this is my last prayer, that you also may perish at the hands of fanatics, andmore terribly than I die to-night.”

Then they hurried her into the place prepared for her and she spoke again:

“Give me to drink, for we thirst, my babe and I!”

Now I saw the abbess enter that passage whence the victim had been led.Presently she came back bearing a cup of water in her hand and with it a loafof bread, and I knew by her mien that my draught was in the water. But of whatbefell afterwards I cannot say certainly, for I prayed the Dominican to openthe door by which we had entered the vault, and passing through it I stooddazed with horror at some distance. A while went by, I do not know how long,till at length I saw the abbess standing before me, a lantern in her hand, andshe was sobbing bitterly.

“All is done,” she said. “Nay, have no fear, the draughtworked well. Before ever a stone was laid mother and child slept sound. Alasfor her soul who died unrepentant and unshriven!”

“Alas for the souls of all who have shared in this night’swork,” I answered. “Now, mother, let me hence, and may we nevermeet again!”

Then she led me back to the cell, where I tore off that accursed monk’srobe, and thence to the door in the garden wall and to the boat which stillwaited on the river, and I rejoiced to feel the sweet air upon my face as onerejoices who awakes from some foul dream. But I won little sleep that night,nor indeed for some days to come. For whenever I closed my eyes there rosebefore me the vision of that beauteous woman as I saw her last by the murkytorchlight, wrapped in grave clothes and standing in the coffin-shaped niche,proud and defiant to the end, her child clasped to her with one arm while theother was outstretched to take the draught of death. Few have seen such asight, for the Holy Office and its helpers do not seek witnesses to their darkdeeds, and none would wish to see it twice. If I have described it ill, it isnot that I have forgotten, but because even now, after the lapse of someseventy years, I can scarcely bear to write of it or to set out its horrorsfully. But of all that was wonderful about it perhaps the most wonderful wasthat even to the last this unfortunate lady should still have clung to her lovefor the villain who, having deceived her by a false marriage, deserted her,leaving her to such a doom. To what end can so holy a gift as this great loveof hers have been bestowed on such a man? None can say, but so it was. Yet nowthat I think of it, there is one thing even stranger than her faithfulness.

It will be remembered that when the fanatic priest struck her she prayed thathe also might die at such hands and more terribly than she must do. So it cameabout. In after years that very man, Father Pedro by name, was sent to convertthe heathen of Anahuac, among whom, because of his cruelty, he was known as the“Christian Devil.” But it chanced that venturing too far among aclan of the Otomie before they were finally subdued, he fell into the hands ofsome priests of the war god Huitzel, and by them was sacrificed after theirdreadful fashion. I saw him as he went to his death, and without telling that Ihad been present when it was uttered, I called to his mind the dying curse ofIsabella de Siguenza. Then for a moment his courage gave way, for seeing in menothing but an Indian chief, he believed that the devil had put the words intomy lips to torment him, causing me to speak of what I knew nothing. But enoughof this now; if it is necessary I will tell of it in its proper place. Atleast, whether it was by chance, or because she had a gift of vision in herlast hours, or that Providence was avenged on him after this fashion, so itcame about, and I do not sorrow for it, though the death of this priest broughtmuch misfortune on me.

This then was the end of Isabella de Siguenza who was murdered by priestsbecause she had dared to break their rule.

So soon as I could clear my mind somewhat of all that I had seen and heard inthat dreadful vault, I began to consider the circumstances in which I foundmyself. In the first place I was now a rich man, and if it pleased me to goback to Norfolk with my wealth, as Fonseca had pointed out, my prospects werefair indeed. But the oath that I had taken hung like lead about my neck. I hadsworn to be avenged upon de Garcia, and I had prayed that the curse of heavenmight rest upon me till I was so avenged, but in England living in peace andplenty I could scarcely come by vengeance. Moreover, now I knew where he was,or at least in what portion of the world I might seek him, and there wherewhite men are few he could not hide from me as in Spain. This tidings I hadgained from the doomed lady, and I have told her story at some length becauseit was through it and her that I came to journey to Hispaniola, as it wasbecause of the sacrifice of her tormentor, Father Pedro, by the priests of theOtomie that I am here in England this day, since had it not been for thatsacrifice the Spaniards would never have stormed the City of Pines, where,alive or dead, I should doubtless have been to this hour; for thus do seemingaccidents build up the fates of men. Had those words never passedIsabella’s lips, doubtless in time I should have wearied of a uselesssearch and sailed for home and happiness. But having heard them it seemed tome, to my undoing, that this would be to play the part of a sorry coward.Moreover, strange as it may look, now I felt as though I had two wrongs toavenge, that of my mother and that of Isabella de Siguenza. Indeed none couldhave seen that young and lovely lady die thus terribly and not desire to wreakher death on him who had betrayed and deserted her.

So the end of it was that being of a stubborn temper, I determined to doviolence to my own desires and the dying counsels of my benefactor, and tofollow de Garcia to the ends of the earth and there to kill him as I had swornto do.

First, however, I inquired secretly and diligently as to the truth of thestatement that de Garcia had sailed for the Indies, and to be brief, having theclue, I discovered that two days after the date of the duel I had fought withhim, a man answering to de Garcia’s description, though bearing adifferent name, had shipped from Seville in a carakbound for the CanaryIslands, which carakwas there to await the arrival of the fleet sailingfor Hispaniola. Indeed from various circumstances I had little doubt that theman was none other than de Garcia himself, which, although I had not thought ofit before, was not strange, seeing that then as now the Indies were the refugeof half the desperadoes and villains who could no longer live in Spain. Thitherthen I made up my mind to follow him, consoling myself a little by the thoughtthat at least I should see new and wonderful countries, though how new andwonderful they were I did not guess.

Now it remained for me to dispose of the wealth which had come to me suddenly.While I was wondering how I could place it in safety till my return, I heard bychance that the “Adventuress” of Yarmouth, the same ship in which Ihad come to Spain a year before, was again in the port of Cadiz, and Ibethought me that the best thing I could do with the gold and other articles ofvalue would be to ship them to England, there to be held in trust for me. Sohaving despatched a message to my friend the captain of the“Adventuress,” that I had freight of value for him, I made mypreparations to depart from Seville with such speed as I might, and to this endI sold my benefactor’s house, with many of the effects, at a price muchbelow their worth. The most of the books and plate, together with some otherarticles, I kept, and packing them in cases, I caused them to be transporteddown the river to Cadiz, to the care of those same agents to whom I hadreceived letters from the Yarmouth merchants.

This being done I followed thither myself, taking the bulk of my fortune withme in gold, which I hid artfully in numerous packages. And so it came to passthat after a stay of a year in Seville, I turned my back on it for ever. Mysojourn there had been fortunate, for I came to it poor and left it a rich man,to say nothing of what I had gained in experience, which was much. Yet I wasglad to be gone, for here Juan de Garcia had escaped me, here I had lost mybest friend and seen Isabella de Siguenza die.

I came to Cadiz in safety and without loss of any of my goods or gold, andtaking boat proceeded on board the “Adventuress,” where I found hercaptain, whose name was Bell, in good health and very glad to see me. Whatpleased me more, however, was that he had three letters for me, one from myfather, one from my sister Mary, and one from my betrothed, Lily Bozard, theonly letter I ever received from her. The contents of these writings were notaltogether pleasing however, for I learned from them that my father was inbroken health and almost bedridden, and indeed, though I did not know it formany years after, he died in Ditchingham Church upon the very day that Ireceived his letter. It was short and sad, and in it he said that he sorrowedmuch that he had allowed me to go upon my mission, since he should see me nomore and could only commend me to the care of the Almighty, and pray Him for mysafe return. As for Lily’s letter, which, hearing that the“Adventuress” was to sail for Cadiz, she had found means todespatch secretly, though it was not short it was sad also, and told me that sosoon as my back was turned on home, my brother Geoffrey had asked her inmarriage from her father, and that they pushed the matter strongly, so that herlife was made a misery to her, for my brother waylaid her everywhere, and herfather did not cease to revile her as an obstinate jade who would fling awayher fortune for the sake of a penniless wanderer.

“But,” it went on, “be assured, sweetheart, that unless theymarry me by force, as they have threatened to do, I will not budge from mypromise. And, Thomas, should I be wedded thus against my will, I shall not be awife for long, for though I am strong I believe that I shall die of shame andsorrow. It is hard that I should be thus tormented, and for one reason only,that you are not rich. Still I have good hope that things may betterthemselves, for I see that my brother Wilfred is much inclined towards yoursister Mary, and though he also urges this marriage on me to-day, she is afriend to both of us and may be in the way to make terms with him before sheaccepts his suit.” Then the writing ended with many tender words andprayers for my safe return.

As for the letter from my sister Mary it was to the same purpose. As yet, shesaid, she could do nothing for me with Lily Bozard, for my brother Geoffrey wasmad with love for her, my father was too ill to meddle in the matter, andSquire Bozard was fiercely set upon the marriage because of the lands that wereat stake. Still, she hinted, things might not always be so, as a time mightcome when she could speak up for me and not in vain.

Now all this news gave me much cause for thought. More indeed, it awoke in me alonging for home which was so strong that it grew almost to a sickness. Herloving words and the perfume that hung about the letter of my betrothed broughtLily back to me in such sort that my heart ached with a desire to be with her.Moreover I knew that I should be welcome now, for my fortune was far greaterthan my brother’s would ever be, and parents do not show the door tosuitors who bring more than twelve thousand golden pieces in their baggage.Also I wished to see my father again before he passed beyond my reach. Butstill between me and my desire lay the shadow of de Garcia and my oath. I hadbrooded on vengeance for so long that I felt even in the midst of this strongtemptation that I should have no pleasure in my life if I forsook my quest. Tobe happy I must first kill de Garcia. Moreover I had come to believe that did Iso forsake it the curse which I had invoked would surely fall upon me.

Meanwhile I did this. Going to a notary I caused him to prepare a deed which Itranslated into English. By this deed I vested all my fortune except twohundred pesos that I kept for my own use, in three persons to hold the same onmy behalf till I came to claim it. Those three persons were my old master,Doctor Grimstone of Bungay, whom I knew for the honestest of men, my sisterMary Wingfield, and my betrothed, Lily Bozard. I directed them by this deed,which for greater validity I signed upon the ship and caused to be witnessed byCaptain Bell and two other Englishmen, to deal with the property according totheir discretion, investing not less than half of it in the purchase of landsand putting the rest out to interest, which interest with the rent of the landswas to be paid to the said Lily Bozard for her own use for so long as sheremained unmarried.

Also with the deed I executed a will by which I devised the most of my propertyto Lily Bozard should she be unmarried at the date of my death, and the residueto my sister Mary. In the event of the marriage or death of Lily, then thewhole was to pass to Mary and her heirs.

These two documents being signed and sealed, I delivered them, together withall my treasure and other goods, into the keeping of Captain Bell, charging himsolemnly to hand them and my possessions to Dr. Grimstone of Bungay, by whom hewould be liberally rewarded. This he promised to do, though not until he hadurged me almost with tears to accompany them myself.

With the gold and the deeds I sent several letters; to my father, my sister, mybrother, Dr. Grimstone, Squire Bozard, and lastly to Lily herself. In theseletters I gave an account of my life and fortunes since I had come to Spain,for I gathered that others which I had sent had never reached England, and toldthem of my resolution to follow de Garcia to the ends of the earth.

“Others,” I wrote to Lily, “may think me a madman thus topostpone, or perchance to lose, a happiness which I desire above anything onearth, but you who understand my heart will not blame me, however much you maygrieve for my decision. You will know that when once I have set my mind upon anobject, nothing except death itself can turn me from it, and that in thismatter I am bound by an oath which my conscience will not suffer me to break. Icould never be happy even at your side if I abandoned my search now. First mustcome the toil and then the rest, first the sorrow and then the joy. Do not fearfor me, I feel that I shall live to return again, and if I do not return, atleast I am able to provide for you in such fashion that you need never bemarried against your will. While de Garcia lives I must follow him.”

To my brother Geoffrey I wrote very shortly, telling him what I thought of hisconduct in persecuting an undefended maiden and striving to do wrong to anabsent brother. I have heard that my letter pleased him very ill.

And here I may state that those letters and everything else that I sent camesafely to Yarmouth. There the gold and goods were taken to Lowestoft and putaboard a wherry, and when he had discharged his ship, Captain Bell sailed upthe Waveney with them till he brought them to Bungay Staithe and thence to thehouse of Dr. Grimstone in Nethergate Street. Here were gathered my sister andbrother, for my father was then two months buried—and also Squire Bozardand his son and daughter, for Captain Bell had advised them of his coming bymessenger, and when all the tale was told there was wonder and to spare. Stillgreater did it grow when the chests were opened and the weight of bullioncompared with that set out in my letters, for there had never been so much goldat once in Bungay within the memory of man.

And now Lily wept, first for joy because of my good fortune, and then forsorrow because I had not come with my treasure, and when he had seen all andheard the deeds read by virtue of which Lily was a rich woman whether I livedor died, the Squire her father swore aloud and said that he had always thoughtwell of me, and kissed his daughter, wishing her joy of her luck. In short allwere pleased except my brother, who left the house without a word andstraightway took to evil courses. For now the cup was dashed from his lips,seeing that having come into my father’s lands, he had brought it aboutthat Lily was to be married to him by might if no other means would serve. Foreven now a man can force his daughter into marriage while she is under age, andSquire Bozard was not one to shrink from such a deed, holding as he did that awoman’s fancies were of no account. But on this day, so great is thepower of gold, there was no more talk of her marrying any man except myself,indeed her father would have held her back from such a thing had she shown amind to it, seeing that then Lily would have lost the wealth which I hadsettled on her. But all talked loudly of my madness because I would not abandonthe chase of my enemy but chose to follow him to the far Indies, though SquireBozard took comfort from the thought that whether I lived or died the money wasstill his daughter’s. Only Lily spoke up for me, saying “Thomas hassworn an oath and he does well to keep it, for his honour is at stake. Now I goto wait until he comes to me in this world or the next.”

But all this is out of place, for many a year passed away before I heard ofthese doings.

CHAPTER XI
THE LOSS OF THE CARAK

On the day after I had given my fortune and letters into the charge of CaptainBell, I watched the “Adventuress” drop slowly round the mole ofCadiz, and so sad was I at heart, that I am not ashamed to confess I wept. Iwould gladly have lost the wealth she carried if she had but carried me. But mypurpose was indomitable, and it must be some other ship that would bear me hometo the shores of England.

As it chanced, a large Spanish caraknamed “Las CinqueLlagas,” or “The Five Wounds,” was about to sail forHispaniola, and having obtained a licence to trade, I took passage in her undermy assumed name of d’Aila, passing myself off as a merchant. To furtherthis deception I purchased goods the value of one hundred and five pesos, andof such nature as I was informed were most readily saleable in the Indies,which merchandise I shipped with me. The vessel was full of Spanishadventurers, mostly ruffians of varied career and strange history, but none theless good companions enough when not in drink. By this time I could speakCastilian so perfectly, and was so Spanish in appearance, that it was notdifficult for me to pass myself off as one of their nation and this I did,inventing a feigned tale of my parentage, and of the reasons that led me totempt the seas. For the rest, now as ever I kept my own counsel, andnotwithstanding my reserve, for I would not mingle in their orgies, I soonbecame well liked by my comrades, chiefly because of my skill in ministering totheir sicknesses.

Of our voyage there is little to tell except of its sad end. At the CanaryIsles we stayed a month, and then sailed away for Hispaniola, meeting with fineweather but light winds. When, as our captain reckoned, we were within aweek’s sail of the port of San Domingo for which we were bound, theweather changed, and presently gathered to a furious tempest from the norththat grew more terrible every hour. For three days and nights our cumbrousvessel groaned and laboured beneath the stress of the gale, that drove us onrapidly we knew not whither, till at length it became clear that, unless theweather moderated, we must founder. Our ship leaked at every seam, one of ourmasts was carried away, and another broken in two, at a height of twenty feetfrom the deck. But all these misfortunes were small compared to what was tocome, for on the fourth morning a great wave swept off our rudder, and wedrifted helpless before the waves. An hour later a green sea came aboard of us,washing away the captain, so that we filled and settled down to founder.

Then began a most horrid scene. For several days both the crew and passengershad been drinking heavily to allay their terror, and now that they saw theirend at hand, they rushed to and fro screaming, praying, and blaspheming. Suchof them as remained sober began to get out the two boats, into which I andanother man, a worthy priest, strove to place the women and children, of whomwe had several on board. But this was no easy task, for the drunken sailorspushed them aside and tried to spring into the boats, the first of whichoverturned, so that all were lost. Just then the carakgave a lurchbefore she sank, and, seeing that everything was over, I called to the priestto follow me, and springing into the sea I swam for the second boat, which,laden with some shrieking women, had drifted loose in the confusion. As itchanced I reached it safely, being a strong swimmer, and was able to rescue thepriest before he sank. Then the vessel reared herself up on her stern andfloated thus for a minute or more, which gave us time to get out the oars androw some fathoms further away from her. Scarcely had we done so, when, with onewild and fearful scream from those on board of her, she rushed down into thedepths below, nearly taking us with her. For a while we sat silent, for ourhorror overwhelmed us, but when the whirlpool which she made had ceased toboil, we rowed back to where the carakhad been. Now all the sea wasstrewn with wreckage, but among it we found only one child living that hadclung to an oar. The rest, some two hundred souls, had been sucked down withthe ship and perished miserably, or if there were any still living, we couldnot find them in that weltering sea over which the darkness was falling.

Indeed, it was well for our own safety that we failed in so doing, for thelittle boat had ten souls on board in all, which was as many as she couldcarry—the priest and I being the only men among them. I have said thatthe darkness was falling, and as it chanced happily for us, so was the sea, orassuredly we must have been swamped. All that we could do was to keep theboat’s head straight to the waves, and this we did through the longnight. It was a strange thing to see, or rather to hear, that good man thepriest my companion, confessing the women one by one as he laboured at his oar,and when all were shriven sending up prayers to God for the salvation of oursouls, for of the safety of our bodies we despaired. What I felt may well beimagined, but I forbear to describe it, seeing that, bad as was my case, therewere worse ones before me of which I shall have to tell in their season.

At length the night wore away, and the dawn broke upon the desolate sea.Presently the sun came up, for which at first we were thankful, for we werechilled to the bone, but soon its heat grew intolerable, since we had neitherfood nor water in the boat, and already we were parched with thirst. But nowthe wind had fallen to a steady breeze, and with the help of the oars and ablanket, we contrived to fashion a sail that drew us through the water at agood speed. But the ocean was vast, and we did not know whither we weresailing, and every hour the agony of thirst pressed us more closely. Towardsmid-day a child died suddenly and was thrown into the sea, and some three hourslater the mother filled a bailing bowl and drank deep of the bitter water. Fora while it seemed to assuage her thirst, then suddenly a madness took her, andspringing up she cast herself overboard and sank. Before the sun, glowing likea red-hot ball, had sunk beneath the horizon, the priest and I were the onlyones in that company who could sit upright—the rest lay upon the bottomof the boat heaped one on another like dying fish groaning in their misery.Night fell at last and brought us some relief from our sufferings, for the airgrew cooler. But the rain we prayed for did not fall, and so great was the heatthat, when the sun rose again in a cloudless sky, we knew, if no help reachedus, that it must be the last which we should see.

An hour after dawn another child died, and as we were in the act of casting thebody into the sea, I looked up and saw a vessel far away, that seemed to besailing in such fashion that she would pass within two miles of where we were.Returning thanks to God for this most blessed sight, we took to the oars, forthe wind was now so light that our clumsy sail would no longer draw us throughthe water, and rowed feebly so as to cut the path of the ship. When we hadlaboured for more than an hour the wind fell altogether and the vessel laybecalmed at a distance of about three miles. So the priest and I rowed on tillI thought that we must die in the boat, for the heat of the sun was like thatof a flame and there came no wind to temper it; by now, too, our lips werecracked with thirst. Still we struggled on till the shadow of the ship’smasts fell athwart us and we saw her sailors watching us from the deck. Now wewere alongside and they let down a ladder of rope, speaking to us in Spanish.

How we reached the deck I cannot say, but I remember falling beneath the shadeof an awning and drinking cup after cup of the water that was brought to me. Atlast even my thirst was satisfied, and for a while I grew faint and dizzy, andhad no stomach for the meat which was thrust into my hand. Indeed, I think thatI must have fainted, for when I came to myself the sun was straight overhead,and it seemed to me that I had dreamed I heard a familiar and hateful voice. Atthe time I was alone beneath the awning, for the crew of the ship were gatheredon the foredeck clustering round what appeared to be the body of a man. By myside was a large plate of victuals and a flask of spirits, and feeling strongerI ate and drank of them heartily. I had scarcely finished my meal when the menon the foredeck lifted the body of the man, which I saw was black in colour,and cast it overboard. Then three of them, whom from their port I took to beofficers, came towards me and I rose to my feet to meet them.

“Señor,” said the tallest of them in a soft and gentle voice,“suffer me to offer you our felicitations on your wonderful—”and he stopped suddenly.

Did I still dream, or did I know the voice? Now for the first time I could seethe man’s face—it was that of Juan de Garcia!But if I knewhim he also knew me.

“Caramba!” he said, “whom have we here? Señor ThomasWingfield I salute you. Look, my comrades, you see this young man whom the seahas brought to us. He is no Spaniard but an English spy. The last time that Isaw him was in the streets of Seville, and there he tried to murder me becauseI threatened to reveal his trade to the authorities. Now he is here, upon whaterrand he knows best.”

“It is false,” I answered; “I am no spy, and I am come tothese seas for one purpose only—to find you.”

“Then you have succeeded well, too well for your own comfort, perhaps.Say now, do you deny that you are Thomas Wingfield and an Englishman?”

“I do not deny it. I—”

“Your pardon. How comes it then that, as your companion the priest tellsme, you sailed in Las Cinque Llagasunder the name ofd’Aila?”

“For my own reasons, Juan de Garcia.”

“You are confused, señor. My name is Sarceda, as these gentlemen can bearme witness. Once I knew a cavalier of the name of de Garcia, but he isdead.”

“You lie,” I answered; whereon one of De Garcia’s companionsstruck me across the mouth.

“Gently, friend,” said de Garcia; “do not defile your hand bystriking such rats as this, or if you must strike, use a stick. You have heardthat he confesses to passing under a false name and to being an Englishman, andtherefore one of our country’s foes. To this I add upon my word of honourthat to my knowledge he is a spy and a would-be murderer. Now, gentlemen, underthe commission of his majesty’s representative, we are judges here, butsince you may think that, having been called a liar openly by this English dog,I might be minded to deal unjustly with him, I prefer to leave the matter inyour hands.”

Now I tried to speak once more, but the Spaniard who had struck me, aferocious-looking villain, drew his sword and swore that he would run methrough if I dared to open my lips. So I thought it well to keep silent.

“This Englishman would grace a yardarm very well,” he said.

De Garcia, who had begun to hum a tune indifferently, smiled, looking first atthe yard and then at my neck, and the hate in his eyes seemed to burn me.

“I have a better thought than that,” said the third officer.“If we hung him questions might be asked, and at the least, it would be awaste of good money. He is a finely built young man and would last some yearsin the mines. Let him be sold with the rest of the cargo, or I will take himmyself at a valuation. I am in want of a few such on my estate.”

At these words I saw de Garcia’s face fall a little, for he wished to berid of me for ever. Still he did not think it politic to interfere beyondsaying with a slight yawn:

“So far as I am concerned, take him, comrade, and free of cost. Only Iwarn you, watch him well or you will find a stiletto in your back.”

The officer laughed and said: “Our friend will scarcely get a chance atme, for I do not go a hundred paces underground, where he will find hisquarters. And now, Englishman, there is room for you below I think;” andhe called to a sailor bidding him bring the irons of the man who had died.

This was done, and after I had been searched and a small sum in gold that I hadupon my person taken from me—it was all that remained to me of mypossessions—fetters were placed upon my ankles and round my neck, and Iwas dragged into the hold. Before I reached it I knew from various signs whatwas the cargo of this ship. She was laden with slaves captured in Fernandina,as the Spaniards name the island of Cuba, that were to be sold in Hispaniola.Among these slaves I was now numbered.

How to tell the horrors of that hold I know not. The place was low, not morethan seven feet in height, and the slaves lay ironed in the bilge water on thebottom of the vessel. They were crowded as thick as they could lie, beingchained to rings fixed in the sides of the ship. Altogether there may have beentwo hundred of them, men, women and children, or rather there had been twohundred when the ship sailed a week before. Now some twenty were dead, whichwas a small number, since the Spaniards reckon to lose from a third to half oftheir cargo in this devilish traffic. When I entered the place a deadlysickness seized me, weak as I was, brought on by the horrible sounds andsmells, and the sights that I saw in the flare of the lanterns which myconductors carried, for the hold was shut off from light and air. But theydragged me along and presently I found myself chained in the midst of a line ofblack men and women, many feet resting in the bilge water. There the Spaniardsleft me with a jeer, saying that this was too good a bed for an Englishman tolie on. For a while I endured, then sleep or insensibility came to my succour,and I sank into oblivion, and so I must have remained for a day and a night.

When I awoke it was to find the Spaniard to whom I had been sold or given,standing near me with a lantern and directing the removal of the fetters from awoman who was chained next to me. She was dead, and in the light of the lanternI could see that she had been carried off by some horrible disease that was newto me, but which I afterwards learned to know by the name of the Black Vomit.Nor was she the only one, for I counted twenty dead who were dragged out insuccession, and I could see that many more were sick. Also I saw that theSpaniards were not a little frightened, for they could make nothing of thissickness, and strove to lessen it by cleansing the hold and letting air into itby the removal of some planks in the deck above. Had they not done this Ibelieve that every soul of us must have perished, and I set down my own escapefrom the sickness to the fact that the largest opening in the deck was madedirectly above my head, so that by standing up, which my chains allowed me todo, I could breathe air that was almost pure.

Having distributed water and meal cakes, the Spaniards went away. I drankgreedily of the water, but the cakes I could not eat, for they were mouldy. Thesights and sounds around me were so awful that I will not try to write of them.

And all the while we sweltered in the terrible heat, for the sun piercedthrough the deck planking of the vessel, and I could feel by her lack of motionthat we were becalmed and drifting. I stood up, and by resting my heels upon arib of the ship and my back against her side, I found myself in a positionwhence I could see the feet of the passers-by on the deck above.

Presently I saw that one of these wore a priest’s robe, and guessing thathe must be my companion with whom I had escaped, I strove to attract hisnotice, and at length succeeded. So soon as he knew who it was beneath him, thepriest lay down on the deck as though to rest himself, and we spoke together.He told me, as I had guessed, that we were becalmed and that a great sicknesshad taken hold of the ship, already laying low a third of the crew, adding thatit was a judgment from heaven because of their cruelty and wickedness.

To this I answered that the judgment was working on the captives as well as onthe captors, and asked him where was Sarceda, as they named de Garcia. Then Ilearned that he had been taken sick that morning, and I rejoiced at the news,for if I had hated him before, it may be judged how deeply I hated him now.Presently the priest left me and returned with water mixed with the juice oflimes, that tasted to me like nectar from the gods, and some good meat andfruit. These he gave me through the hole in the planks, and I made shift toseize them in my manacled hands and devoured them. After this he went away, tomy great chagrin; why, I did not discover till the following morning.

That day passed and the long night passed, and when at length the Spaniardsvisited the hold once more, there were forty bodies to be dragged out of it,and many others were sick. After they had gone I stood up, watching for myfriend the priest, but he did not come then, nor ever again.

CHAPTER XII
THOMAS COMES TO SHORE

For an hour or more I stood thus craning my neck upwards to seek for thepriest. At length when I was about to sink back into the hold, for I couldstand no longer in that cramped posture, I saw a woman’s dress pass bythe hole in the deck, and knew it for one that was worn by a lady who hadescaped with me in the boat.

“Señora,” I whispered, “for the love of God listen to me. Itis I, d’Aila, who am chained down here among the slaves.”

She started, then as the priest had done, she sat herself down upon the deck,and I told her of my dreadful plight, not knowing that she was acquainted withit, and of the horrors below.

“Alas! señor,” she answered, “they can be little worse thanthose above. A dreadful sickness is raging among the crew, six are already deadand many more are raving in their last madness. I would that the sea hadswallowed us with the rest, for we have been rescued from it only to fall intohell. Already my mother is dead and my little brother is dying.”

“Where is the priest?” I asked.

“He died this morning and has just been cast into the sea. Before he diedhe spoke of you, and prayed me to help you if I could. But his words were wildand I thought that he might be distraught. And indeed how can I helpyou?”

“Perhaps you can find me food and drink,” I answered, “andfor our friend, God rest his soul. What of the Captain Sarceda? Is he alsodead?”

“No, señor, he alone is recovering of all whom the scourge has smitten.And now I must go to my brother, but first I will seek food for you.”

She went and presently returned with meat and a flask of wine which she hadhidden beneath her dress, and I ate and blessed her.

For two days she fed me thus, bringing me food at night. On the second nightshe told me that her brother was dead and of all the crew only fifteen men andone officer remained untouched by the sickness, and that she herself grew ill.Also she said that the water was almost finished, and there was little foodleft for the slaves. After this she came no more, and I suppose that she diedalso.

It was within twenty hours of her last visit that I left this accursed ship.For a day none had come to feed or tend the slaves, and indeed many needed notending, for they were dead. Some still lived however, though so far as I couldsee the most of them were smitten with the plague. I myself had escaped thesickness, perhaps because of the strength and natural healthiness of my body,which has always saved me from fevers and diseases, fortified as it was by thegood food that I had obtained. But now I knew that I could not live long,indeed chained in this dreadful charnel-house I prayed for death to release mefrom the horrors of such existence. The day passed as before in swelteringheat, unbroken by any air or motion, and night came at last, made hideous bythe barbarous ravings of the dying. But even there and then I slept and dreamedthat I was walking with my love in the vale of Waveney.

Towards the morning I was awakened by a sound of clanking iron, and opening myeyes, I saw that men were at work, by the light of lanterns, knocking thefetters from the dead and the living together. As the fetters were loosed arope was put round the body of the slave, and dead or quick, he was hauledthrough the hatchway. Presently a heavy splash in the water without told therest of the tale. Now I understood that all the slaves were being thrownoverboard because of the want of water, and in the hope that it might avail tosave from the pestilence those of the Spaniards who still remained alive.

I watched them at their work for a while till there were but two slaves betweenme and the workers, of whom one was living and the other dead. Then I bethoughtme that this would be my fate also, to be cast quick into the sea, and tookcounsel with myself as to whether I should declare that I was whole from theplague and pray them to spare me, or whether I should suffer myself to bedrowned. The desire for life was strong, but perhaps it may serve to show howgreat were the torments from which I was suffering, and how broken was myspirit by misfortunes and the horrors around me, when I say that I determinedto make no further effort to live, but rather to accept death as a mercifulrelease. And, indeed, I knew that there was little likelihood of such attemptsbeing of avail, for I saw that the Spanish sailors were mad with fear and hadbut one desire, to be rid of the slaves who consumed the water, and as theybelieved, had bred the pestilence. So I said such prayers as came into my head,and although with a great shivering of fear, for the poor flesh shrinks fromits end and the unknown beyond it, however high may be the spirit, I preparedmyself to die.

Now, having dragged away my neighbour in misery, the living savage, the menturned to me. They were naked to the middle, and worked furiously to be donewith their hateful task, sweating with the heat, and keeping themselves fromfainting by draughts of spirit.

“This one is alive also and does not seem so sick,” said a man ashe struck the fetters from me.

“Alive or dead, away with the dog!” answered another hoarsely, andI saw that it was the same officer to whom I had been given as a slave.“It is that Englishman, and he it is who brought us ill luck. Cast theJonah overboard and let him try his evil eye upon the sharks.”

“So be it,” answered the other man, and finished striking off myfetters. “Those who have come to a cup of water each a day, do not presstheir guests to share it. They show them the door. Say your prayers,Englishman, and may they do you more good than they have done for most on thisaccursed ship. Here, this is the stuff to make drowning easy, and there is moreof it on board than of water,” and he handed me the flask of spirit. Itook it and drank deep, and it comforted me a little. Then they put the roperound me and at a signal those on the deck above began to haul till I swungloose beneath the hatchway. As I passed that Spaniard to whom I had been givenin slavery, and who but now had counselled my casting away, I saw his face wellin the light of the lantern, and there were signs on it that a physician couldread clearly.

“Farewell,” I said to him, “we may soon meet again. Fool, whydo you labour? Take your rest, for the plague is on you. In six hours you willbe dead!”

His jaw dropped with terror at my words, and for a moment he stood speechless.Then he uttered a fearful oath and aimed a blow at me with the hammer he held,which would swiftly have put an end to my sufferings had I not at that momentbeen lifted from his reach by those who pulled above.

In another second I had fallen on the deck as they slacked the rope. Near mestood two black men whose office it was to cast us poor wretches into the sea,and behind them, seated in a chair, his face haggard from recent illness, satde Garcia fanning himself with his sombrero, for the night was very hot.

He recognised me at once in the moonlight, which was brilliant, and said,“What! are you here and still alive, Cousin? You are tough indeed; Ithought that you must be dead or dying. Indeed had it not been for thisaccursed plague, I would have seen to it myself. Well, it has come right atlast, and here is the only lucky thing in all this voyage, that I shall havethe pleasure of sending you to the sharks. It consoles me for much, friendWingfield. So you came across the seas to seek vengeance on me? Well, I hopethat your stay has been pleasant. The accommodation was a little poor, but atleast the welcome was hearty. And now it is time to speed the parting guest.Good night, Thomas Wingfield; if you should chance to meet your motherpresently, tell her from me that I was grieved to have to kill her, for she isthe one being whom I have loved. I did not come to murder her as you may havethought, but she forced me to it to save myself, since had I not done so, Ishould never have lived to return to Spain. She had too much of my own blood tosuffer me to escape, and it seems that it runs strong in your veins also, elseyou would scarcely hold so fast by vengeance. Well, it has not prosperedyou!” And he dropped back into the chair and fell to fanning himselfagain with the broad hat.

Even then, as I stood upon the eve of death, I felt my blood run hot within meat the sting of his coarse taunts. Truly de Garcia’s triumph wascomplete. I had come to hunt him down, and what was the end of it? He was aboutto hurl me to the sharks. Still I answered him with such dignity as I couldcommand.

“You have me at some disadvantage,” I said. “Now if there isany manhood left in you, give me a sword and let us settle our quarrel once andfor all. You are weak from sickness I know, but what am I who have spentcertain days and nights in this hell of yours. We should be well matched, deGarcia.”

“Perhaps so, Cousin, but where is the need? To be frank, things have notgone over well with me when we stood face to face before, and it is odd, but doyou know, I have been troubled with a foreboding that you would be the end ofme. That is one of the reasons why I sought a change of air to these warmerregions. But see the folly of forebodings, my friend. I am still alive, thoughI have been ill, and I mean to go on living, but you are—forgive me formentioning it—you are already dead. Indeed those gentlemen,” and hepointed to the two black men who were taking advantage of our talk to throwinto the sea the slave who followed me up the hatchway, “are waiting toput a stop to our conversation. Have you any message that I can deliver foryou? If so, out with it, for time is short and that hold must be cleared bydaybreak.”

“I have no message to give you from myself, though I have a message foryou, de Garcia,” I answered. “But before I tell it, let me say aword. You seem to have won, wicked murderer as you are, but perhaps the game isnot yet played. Your fears may still come true. I am dead, but my vengeance mayyet live on, for I leave it to the Hand in which I should have left it atfirst. You may live some years longer, but do you think that you shall escape?One day you will die as surely as I must die to-night, and what then, deGarcia?”

“A truce, I pray you,” he said with a sneer. “Surely you havenot been consecrated priest. You had a message, you said. Pray deliver itquickly. Time presses, Cousin Wingfield. Who sends messages to an exile likemyself?”

“Isabella de Siguenza, whom you cheated with a false marriage andabandoned,” I said.

He started from his chair and stood over me.

“What of her?” he whispered fiercely.

“Only this, the monks walled her up alive with her babe.”

“Walled her up alive! Mother of God! how do you know that?”

“I chanced to see it done, that is all. She prayed me to tell you of herend and the child’s, and that she died hiding your name, loving andforgiving. This was all her message, but I will add to it. May she haunt youfor ever, she and my mother; may they haunt you through life and death, throughearth and hell.”

He covered his face with his hands for a moment, then dropping them sank backinto the chair and called to the black sailors.

“Away with this slave. Why are you so slow?”

The men advanced upon me, but I was not minded to be handled by them if I couldhelp it, and I was minded to cause de Garcia to share my fate. Suddenly Ibounded at him, and gripping him round the middle, I dragged him from hischair. Such was the strength that rage and despair gave to me that I succeededin swinging him up to the level of the bulwarks. But there the matter ended,for at that moment the two black sailors sprang upon us both, and tore him frommy grip. Then seeing that all was lost, for they were about to cut me down withtheir swords, I placed my hand upon the bulwark and leaped into the sea.

My reason told me that I should do well to drown as quickly as possible, and Ithought to myself that I would not try to swim, but would sink at once. Yetlove of life was too strong for me, and so soon as I touched the water, Istruck out and began to swim along the side of the ship, keeping myself in hershadow, for I feared lest de Garcia should cause me to be shot at with arrowsand musket balls. Presently as I went I heard him say with an oath:

“He has gone, and for good this time, but my foreboding went near tocoming true after all. Bah! how the sight of that man frightens me.”

Now I knew in my heart that I was doing a mad thing, for though if no sharktook me, I might float for six or eight hours in this warm water yet I mustsink at last, and what would my struggle have profited me? Still I swam onslowly, and after the filth and stench of the slave hold, the touch of theclean water and the breath of the pure air were like food and wine to me, and Ifelt strength enter into me as I went. By this time I was a hundred yards ormore from the ship, and though those on board could scarcely have seen me, Icould still hear the splash of the bodies, as the slaves were flung from her,and the drowning cries of such among them as still lived.

I lifted my head and looked round the waste of water, and seeing somethingfloating on it at a distance, I swam towards it, expecting that every momentwould be my last, because of the sharks which abound in these seas. Soon I wasnear it, and to my joy I perceived that it was a large barrel, which had beenthrown from the ship, and was floating upright in the water. I reached it, andpushing at it from below, contrived to tilt it so that I caught its upper edgewith my hand. Then I saw that it was half full of meal cakes, and that it hadbeen cast away because the meal was stinking. It was the weight of these rottencakes acting as ballast, that caused the tub to float upright in the water. NowI bethought me, that if I could get into this barrel I should be safe from thesharks for a while, but how to do it I did not know.

While I wondered, chancing to glance behind me, I saw the fin of a sharkstanding above the water not twenty paces away, and advancing rapidly towardsme. Then terror seized me and gave me strength and the wit of despair. Pullingdown the edge of the barrel till the water began to pour into it, I seized iton either side with my hands, and lifting my weight upon them, I doubled myknees. To this hour I cannot tell how I accomplished it, but the next second Iwas in the cask, with no other hurt than a scraped shin. But though I had founda boat, the boat itself was like to sink, for what with my weight and that ofthe rotten meal, and of the water which had poured over the rim, the edge ofthe barrel was not now an inch above the level of the sea, and I knew that didanother bucketful come aboard, it would no longer bear me. At that moment alsoI saw the fin of the shark within four yards, and then felt the barrel shake asthe fish struck it with his nose.

Now I began to bail furiously with my hands, and as I bailed, the edge of thecask lifted itself above the water. When it had risen some two inches, theshark, enraged at my escape, came to the surface, and turning on its side, bitat the tub so that I heard its teeth grate on the wood and iron bands, causingit to heel over and to spin round, shipping more water as it heeled. Now I mustbail afresh, and had the fish renewed its onset, I should have been lost. Butnot finding wood and iron to its taste, it went away for a while, although Isaw its fin from time to time for the space of some hours. I bailed with myhands till I could lift the water no longer, then making shift to take off myboot, I bailed with that. Soon the edge of the cask stood twelve inches abovethe water, and I did not lighten it further, fearing lest it should overturn.Now I had time to rest and to remember that all this was of no avail, since Imust die at last either by the sea or because of thirst, and I lamented that mycowardice had only sufficed to prolong my sufferings.

Then I prayed to God to succour me, and never did I pray more heartily than inthat hour, and when I had finished praying some sort of peace and hope fellupon me. I thought it marvellous that I should thus have escaped thrice fromgreat perils within the space of a few days, first from the sinkingcarak, then from pestilence and starvation in the hold of theslave-ship, and now, if only for a while, from the cruel jaws of the sharks. Itseemed to me that I had not been preserved from dangers which proved fatal toso many, only that I might perish miserably at last, and even in my despair Ibegan to hope when hope was folly; though whether this relief was sent to mefrom above, or whether it was simply that being so much alive at the moment Icould not believe that I should soon be dead, is not for me to say.

At the least my courage rose again, and I could even find heart to note thebeauty of the night. The sea was smooth as a pond, there was no breath of wind,and now that the moon began to sink, thousands of stars of a marvellousbrightness, such as we do not see in England, gemmed the heavens everywhere. Atlast these grew pale, and dawn began to flush the east, and after it came thefirst rays of sunlight. But now I could not see fifty yards around me, becauseof a dense mist that gathered on the face of the quiet water, and hung therefor an hour or more. When the sun was well up and at length the mist clearedaway, I perceived that I had drifted far from the ship, of which I could onlysee the masts that grew ever fainter till they vanished. Now the surface of thesea was clear of fog except in one direction, where it hung in a thick bank ofvapour, though why it should rest there and nowhere else, I could notunderstand.

Then the sun grew hot, and my sufferings commenced, for except the draught ofspirits that had been given me in the hold of the slave-ship, I had touched nodrink for a day and a night. I will not tell them all in particular detail, itis enough to say that those can scarcely imagine them who have never stood forhour after hour in a barrel, bare-headed and parched with thirst, while thefierce heat of a tropical sun beat down on them from above, and was reflectedupward from the glassy surface of the water. In time, indeed, I grew faint anddizzy, and could hardly save myself from falling into the sea, and at last Isank into a sort of sleep or insensibility, from which I was awakened by asound of screaming birds and of falling water. I looked and saw to my wonderand delight, that what I had taken to be a bank of mist was really low-lyingland, and that I was drifting rapidly with the tide towards the bar of a largeriver. The sound of birds came from great flocks of sea-gulls that were preyingon the shoals of fish, which fed at the meeting of the fresh and salt water.Presently, as I watched, a gull seized a fish that could not have weighed lessthan three pounds, and strove to lift it from the sea. Failing in this, it beatthe fish on the head with its beak till it died, and had begun to devour it,when I drifted down upon the spot and made haste to seize the fish. In anothermoment, dreadful as it may seem, I was devouring the food raw, and never have Ieaten with better appetite, or found more refreshment in a meal.

When I had swallowed all that I was able, without drinking water, I put therest of the fish into the pocket of my coat, and turned my thoughts to thebreakers on the bar. Soon it was evident to me that I could not pass themstanding in my barrel, so I hastened to upset myself into the water and toclimb astride of it. Presently we were in the surf, and I had much ado to clingon, but the tide bore me forward bravely, and in half an hour more the breakerswere past, and I was in the mouth of the great river. Now fortune favoured mestill further, for I found a piece of wood floating on the stream which servedme for a paddle, and by its help I was enabled to steer my craft towards theshore, that as I went I perceived to be clothed with thick reeds, in which talland lovely trees grew in groups, bearing clusters of large nuts in theircrowns. Hither to this shore I came without further accident, having spent someten hours in my tub, though it was but a chance that I did so, because of thehorrible reptiles called crocodiles, or, by some, alligators, with which thisriver swarmed. But of them I knew nothing as yet.

I reached land but just in time, for before I was ashore the tide turned, andtide and current began to carry me out to sea again, whence assuredly I hadnever come back. Indeed, for the last ten minutes, it took all the strengththat I had to force the barrel along towards the bank. At length, however, Iperceived that it floated in not more than four feet of water, and sliding fromit, I waded to the bank and cast myself at length there to rest and thank Godwho thus far had preserved me miraculously. But my thirst, which now returnedupon me more fiercely than ever, would not suffer me to lie thus for long, so Istaggered to my feet and walked along the bank of the river till I came to apool of rain water, which on the tasting, proved to be sweet and good. Then Idrank, weeping for joy at the taste of the water, drank till I could drink nomore, and let those who have stood in such a plight remember what water was tothem, for no words of mine can tell it. After I had drunk and washed the brinefrom my face and body, I drew out the remainder of my fish and ate itthankfully, and thus refreshed, cast myself down to sleep in the shade of abush bearing white flowers, for I was utterly outworn.

When I opened my eyes again it was night, and doubtless I should have slept onthrough many hours more had it not been for a dreadful itch and pain that tookme in every part, till at length I sprang up and cursed in my agony. At first Iwas at a loss to know what occasioned this torment, till I perceived that theair was alive with gnat-like insects which made a singing noise, and thensettling on my flesh, sucked blood and spat poison into the wound at one andthe same time. These dreadful insects the Spaniards name mosquitoes. Norwere they the only flies, for hundreds of other creatures, no bigger than apin’s head, had fastened on to me like bulldogs to a baited bear, boringtheir heads into the flesh, where in the end they cause festers. They are namedgarrapatasby the Spanish, and I take them to be the young of the tic.Others there were, also, too numerous to mention, and of every shape and size,though they had this in common, all bit and all were venomous. Before themorning these plagues had driven me almost to madness, for in no way could Iobtain relief from them. Towards dawn I went and lay in the water, thinking tolessen my sufferings, but before I had been there ten minutes I saw a hugecrocodile rise up from the mud beside me. I sprang away to the bank horriblyafraid, for never before had I beheld so monstrous and evil-looking a brute, tofall again into the clutches of the creatures, winged and crawling, that werewaiting for me there by myriads.

But enough of these damnable insects!

CHAPTER XIII
THE STONE OF SACRIFICE

At length the morning broke and found me in a sorry plight, for my face wasswollen to the size of a pumpkin by the venom of the mosquitoes, and the restof my body was in little better case. Moreover I could not keep myself stillbecause of the itching, but must run and jump like a madman. And where was I torun to through this huge swamp, in which I could see no shelter or sign of man?I could not guess, so since I must keep moving I followed the bank of theriver, as I walked disturbing many crocodiles and loathsome snakes. Now I knewthat I could not live long in such suffering, and determined to struggleforward till I fell down insensible and death put an end to my torments.

For an hour or more I went on thus till I came to a place that was clear ofbush and reeds. Across this I skipped and danced, striking with my swollenhands at the gnats which buzzed about my head. Now the end was not far off, forI was exhausted and near to falling, when suddenly I came upon a party of men,brown in colour and clothed with white garments, who had been fishing in theriver. By them on the water were several canoes in which were loads ofmerchandise, and they were now engaged in eating. So soon as these men caughtsight of me they uttered exclamations in an unknown tongue and seizing weaponsthat lay by them, bows and arrows and wooden clubs set on either side withspikes of flinty glass, they made towards me as though to kill me. Now I liftedup my hands praying for mercy, and seeing that I was unarmed and helpless themen laid down their arms and addressed me. I shook my head to show that I couldnot understand, and pointed first to the sea and then to my swollen features.They nodded, and going to one of the canoes a man brought from it a paste of abrown colour and aromatic smell. Then by signs he directed me to remove suchgarments as remained on me, the fashion of which seemed to puzzle them greatly.This being done, they proceeded to anoint my body with the paste, the touch ofwhich gave me a most blessed relief from my intolerable itching and burning,and moreover rendered my flesh distasteful to the insects, for after that theyplagued me little.

When I was anointed they offered me food, fried fish and cakes of meal,together with a most delicious hot drink covered with a brown and foaming froththat I learned to know afterwards as chocolate. When I had finishedeating, having talked a while together in low tones, they motioned me to enterone of the canoes, giving me mats to lie on. I obeyed, and three other men camewith me, for the canoe was large. One of these, a very grave man with a gentleface and manner whom I took to be the chief of the party, sat down opposite tome, the other two placing themselves in the bow and stern of the boat whichthey drove along by means of paddles. Then we started, followed by three othercanoes, and before we had gone a mile utter weariness overpowered me and I fellasleep.

I awoke much refreshed, having slept many hours, for now the sun was setting,and was astonished to find the grave-looking man my companion in the canoe,keeping watch over my sleep and warding the gnats from me with a leafy branch.His kindness seemed to show that I was in no danger of ill-treatment, and myfears on that point being set at rest, I began to wonder as to what strangeland I had come and who its people might be. Soon, however, I gave over, havingnothing to build on, and observed the scenery instead. Now we were paddling upa smaller river than the one on the banks of which I had been cast away, andwere no longer in the midst of marshes. On either side of us was open land, orrather land that would have been open had it not been for the great trees,larger than the largest oak, which grew upon it, some of them of surpassingbeauty. Up these trees climbed creepers that hung like ropes even from thetopmost boughs, and among them were many strange and gorgeous flowering plantsthat seemed to cling to the bark as moss clings to a wall. In their branchesalso sat harsh-voiced birds of brilliant colours, and apes that barked andchattered at us as we went.

Just as the sun set over all this strange new scene the canoes came to alanding place built of timber, and we disembarked. Now it grew dark suddenly,and all I could discover was that I was being led along a good road. Presentlywe reached a gate, which, from the barking of dogs and the numbers of peoplewho thronged about it, I judged to be the entrance to a town, and passing it,we advanced down a long street with houses on either side. At the doorway ofthe last house my companion halted, and taking me by the hand, led me into along low room lit with lamps of earthenware. Here some women came forward andkissed him, while others whom I took to be servants, saluted him by touchingthe floor with one hand. Soon, however, all eyes were turned on me and manyeager questions were asked of the chief, of which I could only guess thepurport.

When all had gazed their fill supper was served, a rich meal of many strangemeats, and of this I was invited to partake, which I did, seated on a mat andeating of the dishes that were placed upon the ground by the women. Among theseI noticed one girl who far surpassed all the others in grace, though none wereunpleasing to the eye. She was dark, indeed, but her features were regular andher eyes fine. Her figure was tall and straight, and the sweetness of her faceadded to the charm of her beauty. I mention this girl here for two reasons,first because she saved me once from sacrifice and once from torture, andsecondly because she was none other than that woman who afterwards became knownas Marina, the mistress of Cortes, without whose aid he had never conqueredMexico. But at this time she did not guess that it was her destiny to bring hercountry of Anahuac beneath the cruel yoke of the Spaniard.

From the moment of my entry I saw that Marina, as I will call her, for herIndian name is too long to be written, took pity on my forlorn state, and didwhat lay in her power to protect me from vulgar curiosity and to minister to mywants. It was she who brought me water to wash in, and a clean robe of linen toreplace my foul and tattered garments, and a cloak fashioned of bright feathersfor my shoulders.

When supper was done a mat was given me to sleep on in a little room apart, andhere I lay down, thinking that though I might be lost for ever to my own world,at least I had fallen among a people who were gentle and kindly, and moreover,as I saw from many tokens, no savages. One thing, however, disturbed me; Idiscovered that though I was well treated, also I was a prisoner, for a manarmed with a copper spear slept across the doorway of my little room. Before Ilay down I looked through the wooden bars which served as a protection to thewindow place, and saw that the house stood upon the border of a large openspace, in the midst of which a great pyramid towered a hundred feet or moreinto the air. On the top of this pyramid was a building of stone that I took tobe a temple, and rightly, in front of which a fire burned. Marvelling what thepurpose of this great work might be, and in honour of what faith it waserected, I went to sleep.

On the morrow I was to learn.

Here it may be convenient for me to state, what I did not discover tillafterwards, that I was in the city of Tobasco, the capital of one of thesouthern provinces of Anahuac, which is situated at a distance of some hundredsof miles from the central city of Tenoctitlan, or Mexico. The river where I hadbeen cast away was the Rio de Tobasco, where Cortes landed in the followingyear, and my host, or rather my captor, was the caciqueor chief ofTobasco, the same man who subsequently presented Marina to Cortes. Thus it cameabout that, with the exception of a certain Aguilar, who with some companionswas wrecked on the coast of Yucatan six years before, I was the first white manwho ever dwelt among the Indians. This Aguilar was rescued by Cortes, thoughhis companions were all sacrificed to Huitzel, the horrible war-god of thecountry. But the name of the Spaniards was already known to the Indians, wholooked on them with superstitious fear, for in the year previous to my beingcast away, the hidalgo Hernandez de Cordova had visited the coast of Yucatanand fought several battles with the natives, and earlier in the same year of myarrival, Juan de Grigalva had come to this very river of Tobasco. Thus it cameabout that I was set down as one of this strange new nation of Teules, as theIndians named the Spaniards, and therefore as an enemy for whose blood the godswere thirsting.

I awoke at dawn much refreshed with sleep, and having washed and clothed myselfin the linen robes that were provided for me, I came into the large room, wherefood was given me. Scarcely had I finished my meal when my captor, thecacique, entered, accompanied by two men whose appearance struck terrorto my heart. In countenance they were fierce and horrible; they wore blackrobes embroidered with mystic characters in red, and their long and tangledhair was matted together with some strange substance. These men, whom allpresent, including the chief or cacique, seemed to look on with theutmost reverence, glared at me with a fierce glee that made my blood run cold.One of them, indeed, tore open my white robe and placed his filthy hand upon myheart, which beat quickly enough, counting its throbs aloud while the othernodded at his words. Afterwards I learned that he was saying that I was verystrong.

Glancing round to find the interpretation of this act upon the faces of thoseabout me, my eyes caught those of the girl Marina, and there was that in themwhich left me in little doubt. Horror and pity were written there, and I knewthat some dreadful death overshadowed me. Before I could do anything, before Icould even think, I was seized by the priests, or pabasas the Indiansname them, and dragged from the room, all the household following us exceptMarina and the cacique. Now I found myself in a great square or marketplace bordered by many fine houses of stone and lime, and some of mud, whichwas filling rapidly with a vast number of people, men women and children, whoall stared at me as I went towards the pyramid on the top of which the fireburned. At the foot of this pyramid I was led into a little chamber hollowed inits thickness, and here my dress was torn from me by more priests, leaving menaked except for a cloth about my loins and a chaplet of bright flowers whichwas set upon my head. In this chamber were three other men, Indians, who fromthe horror on their faces I judged to be also doomed to death.

Presently a drum began to beat high above us, and we were taken from thechamber and placed in a procession of many priests, I being the first among thevictims. Then the priests set up a chant and we began the ascent of thepyramid, following a road that wound round and round its bulk till it ended ona platform at its summit, which may have measured forty paces in the square.Hence the view of the surrounding country was very fine, but in that hour Iscarcely noticed it, having no care for prospects, however pleasing. On thefurther side of the platform were two wooden towers fifty feet or so in height.These were the temples of the gods, Huitzel God of War and Quetzal God of theAir, whose hideous effigies carved in stone grinned at us through the opendoorways. In the chambers of these temples stood small altars, and on thealtars were large dishes of gold, containing the hearts of those who had beensacrificed on the yesterday. These chambers, moreover, were encrusted withevery sort of filth. In front of the temples stood the altar whereon the fireburned eternally, and before it were a hog-backed block of black marble of thesize of an inn drinking table, and a great carven stone shaped like a wheel,measuring some ten feet across with a copper ring in its centre.

All these things I remembered afterwards, though at the time I scarcely seemedto see them, for hardly were we arrived on the platform when I was seized anddragged to the wheel-shaped stone. Here a hide girdle was put round my waistand secured to the ring by a rope long enough to enable me to run to the edgeof the stone and no further. Then a flint-pointed spear was given to me andspears were given also to the two captives who accompanied me, and it was madeclear to me by signs that I must fight with them, it being their part to leapupon the stone and mine to defend it. Now I thought that if I could kill thesetwo poor creatures, perhaps I myself should be allowed to go free, and so tosave my life I prepared to take theirs if I could. Presently the head priestgave a signal commanding the two men to attack me, but they were so lost infear that they did not even stir. Then the priests began to flog them withleather girdles till at length crying out with pain, they ran at me. Onereached the stone and leapt upon it a little before the other, and I struck thespear through his arm. Instantly he dropped his weapon and fled, and the otherman fled also, for there was no fight in them, nor would any flogging bringthem to face me again.

Seeing that they could not make them brave, the priests determined to have donewith them. Amidst a great noise of music and chanting, he whom I had smittenwas seized and dragged to the hog-backed block of marble, which in truth was astone of sacrifice. On this he was cast down, breast upwards, and held so byfive priests, two gripping his hands, two his legs, and one his head. Then,having donned a scarlet cloak, the head priest, that same who had felt myheart, uttered some kind of prayer, and, raising a curved knife of theflint-like glass or itztli, struck open the poor wretch’s breastat a single blow, and made the ancient offering to the sun.

As he did this all the multitude in the place below, in full view of whom thisbloody game was played, prostrated themselves, remaining on their knees tillthe offering had been thrown into the golden censer before the statue of thegod Huitzel. Thereon the horrible priests, casting themselves on the body,carried it with shouts to the edge of the pyramid or teocalli, androlled it down the steep sides. At the foot of the slope it was lifted andborne away by certain men who were waiting, for what purpose I did not know atthat time.

Scarcely was the first victim dead when the second was seized and treated in alike fashion, the multitude prostrating themselves as before. And then last ofall came my turn. I felt myself seized and my senses swam, nor did I recoverthem till I found myself lying on the accursed stone, the priests dragging atmy limbs and head, my breast strained upwards till the skin was stretched tightas that of a drum, while over me stood the human devil in his red mantle, theglass knife in his hand. Never shall I forget his wicked face maddened with thelust for blood, or the glare in his eyes as he tossed back his matted locks.But he did not strike at once, he gloated over me, pricking me with the pointof the knife. It seemed to me that I lay there for years while the pabaaimed and pointed with the knife, but at last through a mist that gatheredbefore my eyes, I saw it flash upward. Then when I thought that my hour hadcome, a hand caught his arm in mid-air and held it and I heard a voicewhispering.

What was said did not please the priest, for suddenly he howled aloud and madea dash towards me to kill me, but again his arm was caught before the knifefell. Then he withdrew into the temple of the god Quetzal, and for a long whileI lay upon the stone suffering the agonies of a hundred deaths, for I believedthat it was determined to torture me before I died, and that my slaughter hadbeen stayed for this purpose.

There I lay upon the stone, the fierce sunlight beating on my breast, whilefrom below came the faint murmur of the thousands of the wondering people. Allmy life seemed to pass before me as I was stretched upon that awful bed, ahundred little things which I had forgotten came back to me, and with themmemories of childhood, of my oath to my father, of Lily’s farewell kissand words, of de Garcia’s face as I was hurled into the sea, of the deathof Isabella de Siguenza, and lastly a vague wonder as to why all priests wereso cruel!

At length I heard footsteps and shut my eyes, for I could bear the sight ofthat dreadful knife no longer. But behold! no knife fell. Suddenly my handswere loosed and I was lifted to my feet, on which I never hoped to stand again.Then I was borne to the edge of the teocalli, for I could not walk, andhere my would-be murderer, the priest, having first shouted some words to thespectators below, that caused them to murmur like a forest when the wind stirsit, clasped me in his blood-stained arms and kissed me on the forehead. Now itwas for the first time that I noticed my captor, the cacique, standingat my side, grave, courteous, and smiling. As he had smiled when he handed meto the pabas, so he smiled when he took me back from them. Then havingbeen cleansed and clothed, I was led into the sanctuary of the god Quetzal andstood face to face with the hideous image there, staring at the golden censerthat was to have received my heart while the priests uttered prayers. Thence Iwas supported down the winding road of the pyramid till I came to its foot,where my captor the caciquetook me by the hand and led me through thepeople who, it seemed, now regarded me with some strange veneration. The firstperson that I saw when we reached the house was Marina, who looked at me andmurmured some soft words that I could not understand. Then I was suffered to goto my chamber, and there I passed the rest of the day prostrated by all that Ihad undergone. Truly I had come to a land of devils!

And now I will tell how it was that I came to be saved from the knife. Marinahaving taken some liking to me, pitied my sad fate, and being veryquick-witted, she found a way to rescue me. For when I had been led off tosacrifice, she spoke to the cacique, her lord, bringing it to his mindthat, by common report Montezuma, the Emperor of Anahuac, was disturbed as tothe Teules or Spaniards, and desired much to see one. Now, she said, I wasevidently a Teule, and Montezuma would be angered, indeed, if I were sacrificedin a far-off town, instead of being sent to him to sacrifice if he saw fit. Tothis the caciqueanswered that the words were wise, but that she shouldhave spoken them before, for now the priests had got hold of me, and it washopeless to save me from their grip.

“Nay,” answered Marina, “there is this to be said. Quetzal,the god to whom this Teule is to be offered, was a white man,^[4]and it may well happen that this man is one of his children. Will it please thegod that his child should be offered to him? At the least, if the god is notangered, Montezuma will certainly be wroth, and wreak a vengeance on you and onthe priests.”

[4]Quetzal, or more properly Quetzalcoatl, was the divinity who is fabled to havetaught the natives of Anahuac all the useful arts, including those ofgovernment and policy. He was white-skinned and dark-haired. Finally he sailedfrom the shores of Anahuac for the fabulous country of Tlapallan in a bark ofserpents’ skins. But before he sailed he promised that he would returnagain with a numerous progeny. This promise was remembered by the Aztecs, andit was largely on account of it that the Spaniards were enabled to conquer thecountry, for they were supposed to be his descendants. Perhaps Quetzalcoatl wasa Norseman! VideSagas of Eric the Redand of ThorfinnKarlsefne.—AUTHOR.

Now when the caciqueheard this he saw that Marina spoke truth, andhurrying up the teocalli, he caught the knife as it was in the act offalling upon me. At first the head priest was angered and called out that thiswas sacrilege, but when the caciquehad told him his mind, he understoodthat he would do wisely not to run a risk of the wrath of Montezuma. So I wasloosed and led into the sanctuary, and when I came out the pabaannounced to the people that the god had declared me to be one of his children,and it was for this reason that then and thereafter they treated me withreverence.

CHAPTER XIV
THE SAVING OF GUATEMOC

Now after this dreadful day I was kindly dealt with by the people of Tobasco,who gave me the name of Teule or Spaniard, and no longer sought to put me tosacrifice. Far from it indeed, I was well clothed and fed, and suffered towander where I would, though always under the care of guards who, had Iescaped, would have paid for it with their lives. I learned that on the morrowof my rescue from the priests, messengers were despatched to Montezuma, thegreat king, acquainting him with the history of my capture, and seeking to knowhis pleasure concerning me. But the way to Tenoctitlan was far, and many weekspassed before the messengers returned again. Meanwhile I filled the days inlearning the Maya language, and also something of that of the Aztecs, which Ipractised with Marina and others. For Marina was not a Tobascan, having beenborn at Painalla, on the southeastern borders of the empire. But her mothersold her to merchants in order that Marina’s inheritance might come toanother child of hers by a second marriage, and thus in the end the girl fellinto the hands of the caciqueof Tobasco.

Also I learned something of the history and customs, and of the picture writingof the land, and how to read it, and moreover I obtained great repute among theTobascans by my skill in medicine, so that in time they grew to believe that Iwas indeed a child of Quetzal, the good god. And the more I studied this peoplethe less I could understand of them. In most ways they were equal to any nationof our own world of which I had knowledge. None are more skilled in the arts,few are better architects or boast purer laws. Moreover, they were brave andhad patience. But their faith was the canker at the root of the tree. Inprecept it was noble and had much in common with our own, such as the rite ofbaptism, but I have told what it was in practice. And yet, when all is said, isit more cruel to offer up victims to the gods than to torture them in thevaults of the Holy Office or to immure them in the walls of nunneries?

When I had lived a month in Tobasco I had learned enough of the language totalk with Marina, with whom I grew friendly, though no more, and it was fromher that I gathered the most of my knowledge, and also many hints as to theconduct necessary to my safety. In return I taught her something of my ownfaith, and of the customs of the Europeans, and it was the knowledge that shegained from me which afterwards made her so useful to the Spaniards, andprepared her to accept their religion, giving her insight into the ways ofwhite people.

So I abode for four months and more in the house of the caciqueofTobasco, who carried his kindness towards me to the length of offering me hissister in marriage. To this proposal I said no as gently as I might, and hemarvelled at it, for the girl was fair. Indeed, so well was I treated, that hadit not been that my heart was far away, and because of the horrible rites oftheir religion which I was forced to witness almost daily, I could have learnedto love this gentle, skilled, and industrious people.

At length, when full four months had passed away, the messengers returned fromthe court of Montezuma, having been much delayed by swollen rivers and otheraccidents of travel. So great was the importance that the Emperor attached tothe fact of my capture, and so desirous was he to see me at his capital, thathe had sent his own nephew, the Prince Guatemoc, to fetch me and a great escortof warriors with him.

Never shall I forget my first meeting with this prince who afterwards became mydear companion and brother in arms. When the escort arrived I was away from thetown shooting deer with the bow and arrow, a weapon in the use of which I hadsuch skill that all the Indians wondered at me, not knowing that twice I hadwon the prize at the butts on Bungay Common. Our party being summoned by amessenger, we returned bearing our deer with us. On reaching the courtyard ofthe cacique’shouse, I found it filled with warriors mostgorgeously attired, and among them one more splendid than the rest. He wasyoung, very tall and broad, most handsome in face, and having eyes like thoseof an eagle, while his whole aspect breathed majesty and command. His body wasencased in a cuirass of gold, over which hung a mantle made of the mostgorgeous feathers, exquisitely set in bands of different colours. On his headhe wore a helmet of gold surmounted by the royal crest, an eagle, standing on asnake fashioned in gold and gems. On his arms, and beneath his knees, he worecirclets of gold and gems, and in his hand was a copper-bladed spear. Roundthis man were many nobles dressed in a somewhat similar fashion, except thatthe most of them wore a vest of quilted cotton in place of the gold cuirass,and a jewelled panacheof the plumes of birds instead of the royalsymbol.

This was Guatemoc, Montezuma’s nephew, and afterwards the last emperor ofAnahuac. So soon as I saw him I saluted him in the Indian fashion by touchingthe earth with my right hand, which I then raised to my head. But Guatemoc,having scanned me with his eye as I stood, bow in hand, attired in my simplehunter’s dress, smiled frankly and said:

“Surely, Teule, if I know anything of the looks of men, we are too equalin our birth, as in our age, for you to salute me as a slave greets hismaster.” And he held his hand to me.

I took it, answering with the help of Marina, who was watching this great lordwith eager eyes.

“It may be so, prince, but though in my own country I am a man of reputeand wealth, here I am nothing but a slave snatched from the sacrifice.”

“I know it,” he said frowning. “It is well for all here thatyou were so snatched before the breath of life had left you, elseMontezuma’s wrath had fallen on this city.” And he looked at thecaciquewho trembled, such in those days was the terror ofMontezuma’s name.

Then he asked me if I was a Teule or Spaniard. I told him that I was noSpaniard but one of another white race who had Spanish blood in his veins. Thissaying seemed to puzzle him, for he had never so much as heard of any otherwhite race, so I told him something of my story, at least so much of it as hadto do with my being cast away.

When I had finished, he said, “If I have understood aright, Teule, yousay that you are no Spaniard, yet that you have Spanish blood in you, and camehither in a Spanish ship, and I find this story strange. Well, it is forMontezuma to judge of these matters, so let us talk of them no more. Come andshow me how you handle that great bow of yours. Did you bring it with you ordid you fashion it here? They tell me, Teule, that there is no such archer inthe land.”

So I came up and showed him the bow which was of my own make, and would shootan arrow some sixty paces further than any that I saw in Anahuac, and we fellinto talk on matters of sport and war, Marina helping out my want of language,and before that day was done we had grown friendly.

For a week the prince Guatemoc and his company rested in the town of Tobasco,and all this time we three talked much together. Soon I saw that Marina lookedwith eyes of longing on the great lord, partly because of his beauty, rank andmight, and partly because she wearied of her captivity in the house of thecacique, and would share Guatemoc’s power, for Marina wasambitious. She tried to win his heart in many ways, but he seemed not to noticeher, so that at last she spoke more plainly and in my hearing.

“You go hence to-morrow, prince,” she said softly, “and Ihave a favour to ask of you, if you will listen to your handmaid.”

“Speak on, maiden,” he answered.

“I would ask this, that if it pleases you, you will buy me of thecaciquemy master, or command him to give me up to you, and take me withyou to Tenoctitlan.”

Guatemoc laughed aloud. “You put things plainly, maiden,” he said,“but know that in the city of Tenoctitlan, my wife and royal cousin,Tecuichpo, awaits me, and with her three other ladies, who as it chances aresomewhat jealous.”

Now Marina flushed beneath her brown skin, and for the first and last time Isaw her gentle eyes grow hard with anger as she answered:

“I asked you to take me with you, prince; I did not ask to be your wifeor love.”

“But perchance you meant it,” he said dryly.

“Whatever I may have meant, prince, it is now forgotten. I wished to seethe great city and the great king, because I weary of my life here and wouldmyself grow great. You have refused me, but perhaps a time will come when Ishall grow great in spite of you, and then I may remember the shame that hasbeen put upon me against you, prince, and all your royal house.”

Again Guatemoc laughed, then of a sudden grew stern.

“You are over-bold, girl,” he said; “for less words thanthese many a one might find herself stretched upon the stone of sacrifice. ButI will forget them, for your woman’s pride is stung, and you know notwhat you say. Do you forget them also, Teule, if you have understood.”

Then Marina turned and went, her bosom heaving with anger and outraged love orpride, and as she passed me I heard her mutter, “Yes, prince, you mayforget, but I shall not.”

Often since that day I have wondered if some vision of the future entered intothe girl’s breast in that hour, or if in her wrath she spoke at random. Ihave wondered also whether this scene between her and Guatemoc had anything todo with the history of her after life; or did Marina, as she avowed to me indays to come, bring shame and ruin on her country for the love of Cortes alone?It is hard to say, and perhaps these things had nothing to do with whatfollowed, for when great events have happened, we are apt to search out causesfor them in the past that were no cause. This may have been but a passing moodof hers and one soon put out of mind, for it is certain that few build up thetemples of their lives upon some firm foundation of hope or hate, of desire ordespair, though it has happened to me to do so, but rather take chance fortheir architect—and indeed whether they take him or no, he is still themaster builder. Still that Marina did not forget this talk I know, for in aftertimes I heard her remind this very prince of the words that had passed betweenthem, ay, and heard his noble answer to her.

Now I have but one more thing to tell of my stay in Tobasco, and then let me onto Mexico, and to the tale of how Montezuma’s daughter became my wife,and of my further dealings with de Garcia.

On the day of our departure a great sacrifice of slaves was held upon theteocallito propitiate the gods, so that they might give us a safejourney, and also in honour of some festival, for to the festivals of theIndians there was no end. Thither we went up the sides of the steep pyramid,since I must look upon these horrors daily. When all was prepared, and we stoodaround the stone of sacrifice while the multitude watched below, that fiercepabawho once had felt the beatings of my heart, came forth from thesanctuary of the god Quetzal and signed to his companions to stretch the firstof the victims on the stone. Then of a sudden the prince Guatemoc steppedforward, and addressing the priests, pointed to their chief, and said:

“Seize that man!”

They hesitated, for though he who commanded was a prince of the blood royal, tolay hands upon a high priest was sacrilege. Then with a smile Guatemoc drewforth a ring having a dull blue stone set in its bezel, on which was engraved astrange device. With the ring he drew out also a scroll of picture-writing, andheld them both before the eyes of the pabas. Now the ring was the ringof Montezuma, and the scroll was signed by the great high priest ofTenoctitlan, and those who looked on the ring and the scroll knew well that todisobey the mandate of him who bore them was death and dishonour in one. Sowithout more ado they seized their chief and held him. Then Guatemoc spokeagain and shortly:

“Lay him on the stone and sacrifice him to the god Quetzal.”

Now he who had taken such fierce joy in the death of others on this same stone,began to tremble and weep, for he did not desire to drink of his own medicine.

“Why must I be offered up, O prince?” he cried, “I who havebeen a faithful servant to the gods and to the Emperor.”

“Because you dared to try to offer up this Teule,” answeredGuatemoc, pointing to me, “without leave from your master Montezuma, andbecause of the other evils that you have done, all of which are written in thisscroll. The Teule is a son of Quetzal, as you have yourself declared, andQuetzal will be avenged because of his son. Away with him, here is yourwarrant.”

Then the priests, who till this moment had been his servants, dragged theirchief to the stone, and there, notwithstanding his prayers and bellowings, onewho had donned his mantle practised his own art upon him, and presently hisbody was cast down the side of the pyramid. For my part I am not sufficient ofa Christian to pretend that I was sorry to see him die in that same fashion bywhich he had caused the death of so many better men.

When it was done Guatemoc turned to me and said, “So perish all yourenemies, my friend Teule.”

Within an hour of this event, which revealed to me how great was the power ofMontezuma, seeing that the sight of a ring from his finger could bring aboutthe instant death of a high priest at the hands of his disciples, we started onour long journey. But before I went I bid a warm farewell to my friend thecacique, and also to Marina, who wept at my going. The caciqueInever saw again, but Marina I did see.

For a whole month we travelled, for the way was far and the road rough, andsometimes we must cut our path through forests and sometimes we must wait uponthe banks of rivers. Many were the strange sights that I saw upon that journey,and many the cities in which we sojourned in much state and honour, but Icannot stop to tell of all these.

One thing I will relate, however, though briefly, because it changed the regardthat the prince Guatemoc and I felt one to the other into a friendship whichlasted till his death, and indeed endures in my heart to this hour.

One day we were delayed by the banks of a swollen river, and in pastime wentout to hunt for deer. When we had hunted a while and killed three deer, itchanced that Guatemoc perceived a buck standing on a hillock, and we set out tostalk it, five of us in all. But the buck was in the open, and the trees andbush ceased a full hundred yards away from where he stood, so that there was noway by which we might draw near to him. Then Guatemoc began to mock me, saying,“Now, Teule, they tell tales of your archery, and this deer is thrice asfar as we Aztecs can make sure of killing. Let us see your skill.”

“I will try,” I answered, “though the shot is long.”

So we drew beneath the cover of a ceibatree, of which the lowestbranches drooped to within fifteen feet of the ground, and having set an arrowon the string of the great bow that I had fashioned after the shape of those weuse in merry England, I aimed and drew it. Straight sped the arrow and struckthe buck fair, passing through its heart, and a low murmur of wonderment wentup from those who saw the feat.

Then, just as we prepared to go to the fallen deer, a male puma, which isnothing but a cat, though fifty times as big, that had been watching the buckfrom above, dropped down from the boughs of the ceibatree full on tothe shoulders of the prince Guatemoc, felling him to the ground, where he layface downwards while the fierce brute clawed and bit at his back. Indeed had itnot been for his golden cuirass and helm Guatemoc would never have lived to beemperor of Anahuac, and perhaps it might have been better so.

Now when they saw the puma snarling and tearing at the person of their prince,though brave men enough, the three nobles who were with us were seized bysudden panic and ran, thinking him dead. But I did not run, though I shouldhave been glad enough to do so. At my side hung one of the Indian weapons thatserve them instead of swords, a club of wood set on both sides with spikes ofobsidian, like the teeth in the bill of a swordfish. Snatching it from its loopI gave the puma battle, striking a blow upon his head that rolled him over andcaused the blood to pour. In a moment he was up and at me roaring with rage.Whirling the wooden sword with both hands I smote him in mid air, the blowpassing between his open paws and catching him full on the snout and head. Sohard was this stroke that my weapon was shattered, still it did not stop thepuma. In a second I was cast to the earth with a great shock, and the brute wason me tearing and biting at my chest and neck. It was well for me at thatmoment that I wore a garment of quilted cotton, otherwise I must have beenripped open, and even with this covering I was sadly torn, and to this day Ibear the marks of the beast’s claws upon my body. But now when I seemedto be lost the great blow that I had struck took effect on him, for one of thepoints of glass had pierced to his brain. He lifted his head, his clawscontracted themselves in my flesh, then he howled like a dog in pain and felldead upon my body. So I lay upon the ground unable to stir, for I was muchhurt, until my companions, having taken heart, came back and pulled the pumaoff me. By this time Guatemoc, who saw all, but till now was unable to movefrom lack of breath, had found his feet again.

“Teule,” he gasped, “you are a brave man indeed, and if youlive I swear that I will always stand your friend to the death as you havestood mine.”

Thus he spoke to me; but to the others he said nothing, casting no reproachesat them.

Then I fainted away.

CHAPTER XV
THE COURT OF MONTE