The Flag of Distress Part 54

In the obscure niche he now occupies no light falls upon his face--not a ray. If there did, it would disclose the countenance of Harry Blew; and as oft before, with an expression upon it not easily understood. But no one sees, much less makes attempt to interpret it.

Meanwhile the two saunterers come to a stop and stand conversing. It is Gomez who is first heard saying:

"I've been thinking, _companero_, now we've got everything straight so far, that our best plan will be to stay where we are till the other matter's fixed."

"What other are you speaking of?"

"The marrying, of course."

"Oh! that. Well?"

"We can send on for the _padre_, and bring him here; or failing him, the _cura_. To tell truth, I haven't the slightest idea of where we've come ash.o.r.e. We may be a goodish distance from Santiago; and to go there, embargoed as we are, there's a possibility of our being robbed of our pretty baggage on the route. You understand me?"

"I do!"

"Against risk of that kind, it is necessary we should take precautions.

And the first--as also the best I can think of--is to stay here till we're spliced. One of our two Californian friends can act as a messenger. Either, with six words I shall entrust to him, will be certain to bring back an ecclesiastic, having full powers to perform the flea-bite of a ceremony. Then we can march inland without fear--ay, with flying colours; both Benedicts, our blushing brides on our arms, and in Santiago spend a pleasant honeymoon."

"Delightful antic.i.p.ation!"

"Just so. And for that very reason, we mustn't risk marring it; which we might, by travelling as simple bachelors. So I say, let us get married before going a step farther."

"But the others? Are they to a.s.sist at our nuptials?"

"Certainly not."

"In what way can it be avoided?"

"The simplest in the world. It's understood that we divide our plunder the first thing in the morning. When that's done, and each has packed up his share, I intend proposing that we separate--every one to go his own gait."

"Will they agree to that, think you?"

"Of course they will. Why shouldn't they? It's the safest way for all, and they'll see that. Twelve of us trooping together through the country--to say nothing of having the women along--the story we're to tell about shipwreck might get discredited. When that's made clear, to our old shipmates, they'll be considerate for their own safety. Trust me for making it clear. Of course we'll keep our Californian friends to act as groomsmen; so that the only things wanted will be a brace of bridesmaids."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughs Hernandez.

"And now to see about our brides. We've not yet proposed to them. We went once to do that, and were disappointed. Not much danger of that now."

"For all that, we may count upon a flat refusal."

"Flat or sharp, little care I. And it won't signify, one way or the other. In three days or less I intend calling Carmen Montijo my wife.

But come on; I long to lay my hand and heart at her feet."

Saying which Gomez strides on towards the grotto, the other by his side, like two Tarquins about to invade the sleep of virginal innocence.

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

WITHIN THE GROTTO.

Though the grotto is in darkness, its occupants are not asleep. To them repose is impossible; for they are that moment in the midst of anguish, keen as human heart could feel. They have pa.s.sed through its first throes, and are for the while a little calmer. But it is the tranquillity of deep, deadening grief, almost despair. They mourn him dearest to them as dead.

Nor have they any doubt of it. How could they? While in the boat, they heard their captors speak about the scuttling of the ship, well knowing what they meant. Long since has she gone to the bottom of the sea, with the living left aboard, or perhaps only their lifeless bodies; for they may have been murdered before! No matter now in what way death came to them. Enough of sadness and horror to think it has come--enough for the bereaved ones to know they are bereft.

Nor do they need telling why it has all been done. Though hindered from seeing while in the boat, they have heard. Cupidity the cause; the crime a scheme to plunder the ship. Alas! it has succeeded.

But all is not yet over. Would that it were! There is something still to come; something they fear to reflect upon, or speak of to one another. What is to be their own fate?

Neither can tell, or guess. Their thoughts are too distracted for reasoning. But in the midst of vague visions, one a.s.sumes a shape too well-defined. It is the same of which Carmen was speaking when seized.

She again returns to it, saying:

"Inez, I'm now almost sure we are not in the hands of strangers. From what has happened, and some voices we heard, I fear my suspicions have been too true!"

"Heaven help us, if it be so!"

"Yes; Heaven help us! Even from pirates we might have expected some mercy; but none from them. _Ay de mi_! what will become of us?"

The interrogatory is only answered by a sigh. The spirit of the Andalusian girl, habitually cheerful, is now crushed under a weight of very wretchedness. Soon again they exchange speech, seeking counsel of one another. Is there no hope, no hand to help, no one to whom they may turn in this hour of dread ordeal? No--not one! Even the English sailor, in whom they had trusted, has proved untrue; to all appearance, chief of the conspiring crew! Every human being seems to have abandoned them. Has G.o.d?

"Let us pray to Him!" says Carmen.

"Yes," answers Inez; "He only can help us now."

They kneel side by side on the hard, cold floor of the cave, and send up their voices in earnest prayer. They first entreat the Holy Virgin that the life of him dear to them may yet be spared; then invoke her protection for themselves, against a danger both dread as death itself.

They pray in trembling accents, but with a fervour eloquent through fear.

Solemnly p.r.o.nouncing "Amen!" they make the sign of the cross; in darkness, G.o.d alone seeing it.

As their hands drop down from the gesture, and while they are still in a kneeling att.i.tude, a noise outside succeeds their appeal to Heaven, suddenly recalling them to earthly thoughts and fears.

They hear voices of men in conversation; at the same time the sailcloth is pushed aside, and two men press past it into the cave. Soon as entering one says:

"Senoritas! we must ask pardon for making our somewhat untimely call; which present circ.u.mstances render imperative. It's to be hoped, however, you won't stand upon such stiff ceremony with us, as when we had the honour of last paying our respects to you."

After this singular peroration, the speaker pauses to see what may be the effect of his words. As this cannot be gathered from any reply-- since none is vouchsafed--he continues; "Dona Carmen Montijo, you and I are old acquaintances; though, it may be, you do not remember my voice.

With the sound of the sea so long echoing in your ears, that's not strange. Perhaps the sense of sight will prove more effectual in recalling an old friend. Let me give you something to a.s.sist it!"

Saying this, he holds out a lantern, hitherto concealed beneath his cloak. As it lights up the grotto, four figures are seen erect; for the girls have sprung to their feel in apprehension of immediate danger.

Upon all, the light shines clear; and, fronting her, Carmen Montijo sees--too surely recognising it--the face of Francisco de Lara; while in her _vis-a-vis_, Inez Alvarez beholds Faustino Calderon!

Yes, before them are their scorned suitors; no longer disguised in sailor garb, but resplendent in their Californian costume--the same worn by them on that day of their degradation, when De Lara rolled in the dust of the Dolores road.

Now that he has them in his power, his triumph is complete; and in strains of exultation he continues:

"So, ladies! you see we've come together again! No doubt you're a little surprised at our presence, but I hope not annoyed."