The Velvet Glove Part 43

"They played me false," the General had told him indignantly a few hours earlier. "They promised me a good sum--yes a sufficient sum. But when the time came the money was not forthcoming. An awkward position; but I found a way out of it."

"By being loyal," suggested Sarrion with a short laugh and there the conversation ceased.

Juanita looked across the valley towards Pedro's mill. There was no flag there. All the valley was peaceful enough, giving in the brilliant sunshine no glint of sword or bayonet.

On the bridge, the little knot of men awaited the advent of the Carlists forming up round the corner. In a moment these came, swarming over the road and the hillside. The roadway was packed with them, the rocks and the bushes above the river seemed alive with them. They fired independently, and the hillside was white in a moment. The royalist troops on the bridge fired one volley and then turned. They ran straight along the road. Some threw down their knapsacks. One or two stopped, seemed to hesitate and then laid them down on the road like a tired child. Others limped to the side and sat there.

All the while the Carlists came on. The rear ranks were still coming round the corner. The skirmishers were already across the bridge. There was only one place for Zeneta's men to run to now--the castle of Torre Garda. They were already at the foot of the slope. Juanita and Sarrion could distinguish the slim form of their commander walking along the road behind his men, sword in hand. Sometimes he ran a few steps, but for the most part he walked with long, steady strides, shepherding his men.

They began to climb the slope, and Zeneta took up his position on a rock jutting out of the hillside. He stood on tiptoe and watched the bridge.

The last of the Carlists were on it now. Juanita could see his eager face, with intrepid eyes alert, and lips apart, drawn back over his teeth. She glanced at Sarrion, whose lips were the same. His eyes glittered. He was biting his lower lip.

As the last man ran across the bridge on the heels of his comrades, Zeneta looked across the valley towards the water mill. He waved his handkerchief high above his head. A little flag fluttered above the trees growing round the mill-wheel.

Cousin Peligros being only human now came to the terrace to see what was happening. She had taken the precaution of putting on her mittens and opening her parasol.

"What is the meaning of this noise?" she asked; but neither Sarrion nor Juanita seemed to hear her. They were watching the little flag, which seemed to be descending the hill.

So close beneath the house were Zeneta's men now, that those on the terrace could hear his voice.

"The bridge," said Sarrion, under his breath. "Look at the bridge!"

It was half hidden in the smoke that still hovered in the air, but something was taking place there. Men were running hither and thither.

The sunlight glittered on uniform and bayonet.

"Guns!" said Sarrion curtly, and as he spoke the whole valley shook beneath their feet. A roar seemed to arise from the river and spread all up the hills, and simultaneously a cloak of white smoke was laid over the green slopes.

Juanita saw Zeneta stand for a moment, with sword upheld, while his men gathered round him. Then with a wild shout of exultation he led them down the hill again. Before he had run ten paces he fell--his feet seemed to slip from under him, and he lay at full length for a moment--then he was up again and at the head of his men.

A bullet came singing up over the low brushwood and a distant tinkle of falling gla.s.s told that it had found its billet in a window. The bushes in the garden seemed suddenly alive with rustling life and Sarrion dragged Juanita back from the bal.u.s.trade.

"No--no!" she said angrily.

"Yes--I promised Marcos," answered Sarrion with his arm round her waist.

In a moment they were in the library where they found Cousin Peligros in an easy chair with folded hands and the face of a very early Christian martyr.

"I have never been treated like this before," she said severely.

Sarrion stood at the window, keeping Juanita in.

"It will be all over in a few minutes," he said. "Holy Virgin! What a lesson for them."

The din was terrible. The lady of delicate hearing placed her hands over her ears not forgetting to curl her little finger in the manner deemed irresistible by her generation. Quite suddenly the firing ceased as if by the turning of a tap.

"There," said Sarrion, "it is over. Marcos said they were to be taught a lesson. They have learnt it."

He quitted the room taking his hat which he had thrown aside.

Juanita went to the terrace. She could see nothing. The whole valley was hidden in smoke which rolled upward in yellow clouds. The air choked her.

She came back to the library, coughing, and went towards the door.

"Juanita," said Cousin Peligros, "I forbid you to leave the room. I absolutely refuse to be left alone."

"Then call your maid," said Juanita, patiently.

"Where are you going?"

"I am going to follow Uncle Ramon down to the valley. There must be hundreds of wounded. I can do something----"

"Then I forbid you to go. It is permissible for Marcos to identify himself with such proceedings--in protection of those whom Providence has placed under his care. Indeed I should expect it of him. It is his duty to defend Torre Garda."

Juanita looked at the supine form in the easy chair.

"Yes," she answered. "And I am mistress of Torre Garda."

Which, perhaps, had a double meaning, for when she closed the door--not without emphasis--Cousin Peligros sat upright with a start.

Juanita hurried out of the house and ran down the road winding on the slope to the village. The smoke choked her; the air was impregnated with sulphur. It seemed impossible that anybody could have lived through these h.e.l.lish minutes that were pa.s.sed. In front of her she saw Sarrion hurrying in the same direction. A moment later she gave a little cry of joy. Marcos was riding up the slope at a gallop. He pulled up when he saw his father and by the time he had quitted the saddle, Juanita was with him.

Marcos' face was gray beneath the sunburn. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were pressed upward in a line of deadly resolution. It was the face of a man who had seen something that he would never forget. He looked at his father.

"Evasio Mon," he said.

"Killed?"

Marcos nodded his head.

"You did not do it?" said Sarrion sharply.

"No. They found him among the Carlists, There were five or six priests.

It was Zeneta--wounded himself--who recognised him and told me. He was not dead when Zeneta found him--and he spoke. 'Always the losing game,'

he said. Then he smiled--and died."

Sarrion turned and led the way slowly back again towards the house.

Juanita seemed to have forgotten her intention of going to the valley to offer help to the nursing-sisters who lived in the village.

Marcos' horse, the Moor, was shaking and dragged on the bridle which he had slipped over his arm. He jerked angrily at the reins, looking back with a little exclamation of impatience. Juanita took the bridle from his arm and led the horse which followed her quietly enough. She said nothing and asked no questions. But she was watching Marcos' face--wondering, perhaps, if it would ever soften again.

Sarrion was the first to speak.

"Poor Mon," he said, half addressing Juanita. "He was never a fortunate man. He took the wrong turning years ago. He abandoned the Church in order to ask a woman to marry him. But she had scruples. She thought, or she was made to think, that her duty lay in another direction. And Mon's life ... well ...!"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I know," said Juanita quietly ... "all about it."