After a moment's hesitation the old gentleman stayed till the worshippers had departed, and then drew near to Manvers, and bowed ceremoniously.

"You will forgive me for remarking upon what you have in your hand, senor caballero," he said, "when I tell you that I was present, not only at the commissioning of the work, but at its daily progress to the perfection it now bears. My friend, Don Sebastian, had every reason to be contented with his masterpiece. I am glad to learn from him that you were no less satisfied."

Manvers, who had immediately shut down his hand, now opened it. "Yes," he said, "it's a beautiful piece of work. I am more than pleased."

"It is a setting," said Don Luis, "which, in this country, we should give to a relic of the True Cross."

Manvers looked quickly up. "I know, I know. It must seem to you a piece of extravagance on my part——; but there were reasons, good reasons. I could hardly have done less."

Don Luis bowed gravely, but said nothing. Manvers felt impelled to further discussion. Had he been a Spaniard he would have left the matter where it was; but he was not, so he went awkwardly on.

"It's a queer story. For some reason or another I don't care to speak of it. The person who gave me this trinket did me—or intended me—an immense service, at a great cost."

"She too," said Don Luis, looking at the Dolorosa, "may have had her reasons."

"It was a woman," said Manvers, with quickening colour, "I see no harm in saying so. I was going to tell you that she believed herself indebted to me for some trifling attention I had been able to show her previously. That is how I explain her giving me the crucifix. It was her way of thanking me—a pretty way. I was touched."

Don Luis waved his hand. "It is very evident, senor caballero. Your way of recording it is exemplary: her way, perhaps, was no less so."

"You will think me of a sentimental race," Manvers laughed, "and I won't deny it—but it's a fact that I was touched."

Don Luis, who, throughout the conversation, had been turning the crucifix about, now examined the inscription. He held it up to the light that he might see it better. Manvers observed him, but did not take the hint which was thus, rather bluntly, conveyed him. The case once more in his breast-pocket, he saluted Don Luis and went his way.

Shortly afterwards he left Valladolid on horseback.

Perhaps a week went by, perhaps ten days; and then Don Luis had a visitor one night in the Cafe de la Luna, a mean-looking, pale and harassed visitor with a close-cropped head, whose eyebrows flickered like summer fires in the sky, who would not sit down, who kept his felt hat rolled in his hands, whose deference was extreme, and accepted as a matter of course. He was known in Valladolid, it seemed. Pepe knew him, called him Tormillo.

"A sus pies," was the burthen of his news so far, "a los pies de V d , Senor Don Luis."

Don Luis took no sort of notice of him, but continued to smoke his cigarette. He allowed the man to stand shuffling about for some three minutes before he asked him what he wanted.

That was exactly what Tormillo found it so difficult to explain. His eyebrows ran up to hide in his hair, his hands crushed his hat into his chest. "Quien sabe?" he gasped to the company, and Don Luis drained his glass.

Then he looked at the man. "Well, Tormillo?"

Tormillo shifted his feet. "Ha!" he gasped, "who knows what the senores may be pleased to say? How am I to know? They ask for an interview, a short interview in the light of the moon. Two caballeros in the Campo Grande—ready to oblige your Excellency."

"And who, pray, are these caballeros? And why do they stand in the Campo?" Don Luis asked in his grandest manner. Tormillo wheedled in his explanations.

"That which they have to report, Senor Don Luis," he began, craning forward, whispering, grinning his extreme goodwill—"Oho! it is not matter for the Cafe. It is matter for the moon, and the shade of trees. And these caballeros——"

Don Luis paid the hovering Pepe his shot, rose and threw his cloak over his shoulder. "Follow me," he said, and, saluting the company, walked into the plaza. He crossed it, and entered a narrow street, where the overhanging houses make a perpetual shade. There he stopped. "Who are these gentlemen?" he said abruptly. Tormillo seemed to be swimming.

"Worthy men, Senor Don Luis, worthy of confidence. To me they said little; it is for your grace's ear. They have titles. They are written across their foreheads. It is not for me to speak. Who am I, Tormillo, but the slave of your nobility?"

The more he prevaricated, the less Don Luis pursued him. Stiffening his neck, shrouded in, his cloak, he now stalked stately from street to street until he came to the Puerta del Carmen, through the battlements of which the moon could be seen looking coldly upon Valladolid. He was known to the gatekeeper, who bowed, and opened for him the wicket.

The great space of the Campo Grande lay like a silver pool, traversed only by the thin shadows of the trees. At the farther end of the avenue, which leads directly from the gate, two men were standing close together. Beyond them a little were two horses, one snuffing at the bare earth, the other with his head thrown up, and ears pricked forward. Don Luis turned sharply on his follower.

"Guardia Civil?"

"Si, senor, si," whispered Tormillo, and his teeth clattered like castanets. Don Luis went on without faltering, and did not stay until he was within easy talking distance of the two men. Then it was that he threw up his head, with a fine gesture of race, and acknowledged the saluting pair. Tormillo, at this point, turned aside and stood miserably under a tree, wringing his hands.

"Good evening to you, friends. I am Don Luis Ramonez, at your service."

The pair looked at each other: presently one of them spoke.

"At the feet of Senor Don Luis."

"Your business is pressing, and secret?"

"Si, Senor Don Luis, pressing, and secret, and serious. We have to ask your grace to be prepared."

"I thank you. My preparations are made already. Present your report."

He took a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it with a steady hand. The flame of the match showed his brows and deep-set eyes. If ever a man had acquaintance with grief printed upon him, it was he. But throughout the interview the glowing weed could be seen, a waxing and waning rim of fire, lighting up his grey moustache and then hovering in mid-air, motionless.

The officer appointed to speak presented his report in these terms.

"We were upon our round about the wood of La Huerca six days ago, and had occasion to visit the Convent of La Pena. Upon information received from the Prior we questioned a certain religious, who admitted that he had recently buried a man in the wood. After some hesitation, which we had the means of overcoming, he conducted us to the grave. We disinterred the deceased, who had been murdered. Senor Don Luis——"

"Proceed," said Don Luis coldly. "I am listening."

"Sir," said the officer. "It was the body of a young man who had come from Pobledo. He called himself Esteban Vincaz." Tormillo, under his tree across the avenue, howled and rent himself. Don Luis heard him.

"Precisely," he said to the officer. "Have the goodness to wait while I silence that dog over there." He went rapidly over the roadway to Tormillo, grasped him by the shoulder and spoke to him in a vehement whisper. That was the single action by which he betrayed himself. He returned to his interview.

"I am now at leisure again. Let us resume our conversation. You questioned the religious, you say? When did the assassination take place?"

"Don Luis, it was upon the twelfth of May."

"Ah," said Don Luis, "the twelfth of May? And did he know who committed it?"

"Senor Don Luis, it was a woman."

The wasted eyes were upon the speaker, and made him nervous. He turned away his head. But Don Luis continued his cross-examination.

"She was a fair woman, I believe? A Valencian?"

"Senor, si," said the man. "Fair and false, a Valencian."

Of Valencia they say, "La carne es herba, la herba agua, el hombre muger, la muger nada."

"Her name," said Don Luis, "began with M."

"Senor, si. It was Manuela, the dancing girl—called La Valenciana, La Fierita, and a dozen other things. But, pardon me the liberty, your worship had been informed?"

"I knew something," said Don Luis, "and suspected something. I am much obliged to you, my friends. Justice will be done. Good night to you." He turned, touching the brim of his hat; but the man went after him.

"A thousand pardons, senor Don Luis, but we have our duty to the State."

"Eh!" said Don Luis sharply. "Well, then, you had best set to work upon it."

"If your worship has any knowledge of the whereabouts of this woman——"

"I have none," said Don Luis. "If I had I would impart it, and when I have it shall be yours. Go now with God."

He crossed the pathway of light, laid his hand on the shoulder of the weeping Tormillo. "Come, I need you," he said. Tormillo crept after him to his lodging, and the Guardias Civiles made themselves cigarettes.

The following day a miracle was reported in Valladolid. Don Luis Ramonez was not in his place in the Cafe de la Luna. Sebastian the goldsmith, Gomez the pert barber, Pepe the waiter, Micael the water-seller of the Plaza Mayor knew nothing of his whereabouts. The old priest of Las Angustias might have told if his lips had not been sealed. But in the course of the next morning it was noised about that his Worship had left the city for Madrid, accompanied by a servant.



CHAPTER XI

GIL PEREZ DE SEGOVIA

Before he left Valladolid Manvers had sold his horse for what he could get, and had taken the diligencia as far as Segovia. Not a restful conveyance, the diligencia of Spain: therefore, in that wonderful city of towers, silence, and guarded windows, he stayed a full week, in order, as he put it, that his bones might have time to set.



There it was that he became the property of Gil Perez, who met him one day on the doorstep of his hotel, saluted him with a flourish and said in dashing English, "Good morning, Mister. I am the man for you. I espeak English very good, Dutch, what you like. I show you my city; you pleased—eh?" He had a merry brown face, half of a quiz and half of a rogue, was well-dressed in black, wore his hat, which was now in his hand, rather over one ear. Manvers met his saucy eyes for a minute, saw anxiety behind their impudence, could not be angry, burst into a laugh, and was heartily joined by Gil Perez.

"That very good," said Gil. "You laugh, I very glad. That tell me is all right." He immediately became serious. "I serve you well, sir, there's no mistake. I am Gil Perez, too well known to the landlord of this hotel. You see?" He showed his teeth, which were excellent, and he had also, Manvers reflected, shown his hand, for what it was worth—which argued a certain security.

"Gil Perez," he said, on an impulse, "I shall take you at your word. Do you wait where you are." He turned back into the inn and sought his landlord, who was smoking a cigar in the kitchen while the maids bustled about. From him he learned what there was to be known of Gil Perez; that he was a native of Cadiz who had been valet to an English officer at Gibraltar, followed him out to the Crimea, nursed him through dysentery (of which he had died), and had then begged his way home again to Spain. He had been in Segovia a year or two, acting as guide or interpreter when he could, living on nothing a day mostly and doing pretty well on it.

"He has been in prison, I shall not conceal from your honour," said the landlord. "He stabbed a man under the ribs because he had insulted the English. Gil Perez loves your nation. He considers you to be the natural protectors of the poor. He will serve you well, you may be sure."

"That's what he told me himself," said Manvers.

The landlord rested his eyes—large, brown and solemn as those of an ox—upon his guest. "He told you the truth, senor. He will serve you better than he would serve me. You will be his god."

"I hope not," said Manvers, and went out to the door again. Gil Perez, who had been smoking out in the sun, threw his papelito away, stood at attention and saluted smartly.

"What was the name of your English master?" Manvers asked him. Gil replied at once.

"'E call Capitan Rodney. Royalorse Artillery. 'E say 'Gunner.' 'E was a gentleman, sir."

"I'm sure he was," said Manvers.

"My master espeak very good Espanish. 'E say 'damn your eyes' all the time; and call me 'Little devil' just the same. Ah," said Gil Perez, shaking his head. "'E very good gentleman to me, sir—good master. I loved 'im. 'E dead." For a minute he gazed wistfully at the sky; then, as if to clinch the sad matter, he turned to Manvers. "I bury 'im all right," he said briskly, and nodded inward the fact.

Manvers considered for a moment. "I'll give you," he said, and looked at Gil keenly as he said it, "I'll give you one peseta a day." He saw his eyes fade and grow blank, though the genial smile hovered still on his lips. Then the light broke out upon him again.

"All right, sir," he said. "I take, and thank you very much."

Manvers said immediately, "I'll give you two," and Gil Perez accepted the correction silently, with a bow. By the end of the day they were on the footing of friends, but not without one short crossing of swords. After dinner, when Manvers strolled to the door of the inn, he found his guide waiting for him. Gil was in a confidential humour, it seemed.

"You care see something, sir?"

"What sort of a thing, for instance?" he was asked.

Gil Perez shrugged. "What you like, sir." He peered into his patron's face, and there was infinite suggestion in his next question. "You see fine women?"

Manvers had expected something of the sort and had a steely stare ready for him. "No, thanks," he said drily, and Gil saluted and withdrew. He was at the door next morning, affable yet respectful, confident in his powers of pleasing, of interesting, of arranging everything; but he never presumed again. He knew his affair.

Three days' sightseeing taught master and man their bearings. Manvers got into the way of forgetting that Gil Perez was there, except when it was convenient to remember him; Gil, on his part, learned to distinguish between his patron's soliloquies and his conversation. He never made a mistake after the third day. If Manvers, in the course of a ramble, stopped abruptly, buried a hand in his beard and said aloud that he would be shot if he knew which way to turn, Gil Perez watched him closely, but made no remark.

Even, "Look here, you know, this won't do," failed to move him beyond a state of tension, like that of a cat in the act to pounce. He had found out that Manvers talked to himself, and was put about by interruptions; and if you realise how sure and certain he was that he knew much better than his master what was the very thing, or the last thing, he ought to do, you will see that he must have put considerable restraint upon himself.

But loyalty was his supreme virtue. From the moment Manvers had taken him on at two pesetas a day he became the perfect servant of a perfect master. He could have no doubt, naturally, of his ability to serve—his belief in himself never wavered; but he had none either in his gentleman's right to command. I believe if Manvers had desired him to cut off his right hand he would have complied with a smile. "Very good, master. You wanta my 'and? I do."

If he had a failing it was this: nothing on earth would induce him to talk his own language to his master. He was unmoved by encouragement, unconvinced by the fluency of Manvers' Castilian periods; he would have risked his place upon this one point of honour.

"Espanish no good, sir, for you an' me," he said once with an irresistible smile. "Too damsilly for you. Capitan Rodney, 'e teach, me Englisha speech. Now I know it too much. No, sir. You know what they say—them filosofistas?" he asked him on another encounter. "They say, God Almighty 'e maka this world in Latin—ver' fine for thata big job. Whata come next? Adamo 'e love his lady in Espanish—esplendid for maka women love. That old Snaka 'e speak to 'er in French—that persuade 'er too much. Then Eva she esplain in Italian—ver' soft espeech. Adamo 'e say, That all righta. Then God Almighty ver' savage. 'E turn roun' on them two. 'E say, That be blowed, 'e say in English. They understan' 'im too much. Believe me—is the best for you an' me, sir. All people understan' that espeech."

Taken as a guide, he installed himself as body servant, silently, tactfully, but infallibly. Manvers caught him one morning putting boots by his door. "Hulloa, Gil Perez," he called out, "what are you doing with my boots?"

Gil's confidential manner was a thing to drink. "That mozo, master—'e fool. 'E no maka shine. I show him how Capitan Rodney lika 'is boots. See 'is a face in 'em." He smirked at his own as he spoke, and was so pleased that Manvers said no more.

The same night he stood behind his master's chair. Manvers contented himself by staring at him. Gil Perez smiled with his bright eyes and became exceedingly busy. Manvers continued to stare, and presently Gil Perez was observed to be sweating. The poor fellow was self-conscious for once in his life. Obliged to justify himself, he leaned to his master's ear.

"That mozo, sir, too much of a dam fool. Imposs' you estand 'im. I tell 'im, This gentleman no like garlic down his neck. I say, You breathe too 'ard, my fellow—too much garlic. This gentleman say, Crikey, what a stink! That no good."

There was no comparison between the new service and the old; and so it was throughout. Gil Perez drove out the chambermaid and made Manvers' bed; he brushed his clothes as well as his boots, changed his linen for him, saw to the wash—in fine, he made himself indispensable. But when Manvers announced his coming departure, there was a short tussle, preceded by a pause for breath.

Gil Perez inquired of the sky, searched up the street, searched down. A group of brown urchins hovered, as always, about the stranger, ready to risk any deadly sin for the chance of a maravedi or the stump of a cigar.

Gil snatched at one by the bare shoulder and spoke him burning words. "Canalla," he cried him, "horrible flea! Thou makest the air to reek—impossible to breathe. Fly, thou gnat of the midden, or I crack thee on my thumb."

The boys retired swearing, and Gil, with desperate calling-up of reserves, faced his ordeal. "Ver' good, master, we go when you like. We see Escorial—fine place—see La Granja, come by Madrid thata way. I get 'orses 'ow you please." Then he had an inspiration, and beamed all over his face. "Or mules! We 'ave mules. Mules cheap, 'orses dear too much in Segovia."

Manvers could see very well what he was driving at. "I think I'll take the diligencia, Gil Perez."

Gil shrugged. "'Ow you like, master. Fine air, thata way. Ver' cheap way to go. You take my advice, you go coupe. I go redonda more cheap. Give me your passport, master—I take our place."

"Yes, I know," said Manvers. "But I'm not sure that I need take you on with me. I travel without a servant mostly."

Gil grappled with his task. He dropped his air of assumption; his eyes glittered.

"I save you money, master. You find me good servant—make a difference, yes?"

"Oh, a great deal of difference," Manvers admitted. "I like you; you suit me excellently well, but——" He considered what he had to do in Madrid, and frowned over it. Manuela was there, and he wished to see Manuela. He had not calculated upon having a servant when he had promised himself another interview with her, and was not at all sure that he wanted one. On the other hand, Gil might be useful in a number of ways—and his discretion and tact were proved. While he hesitated, Gil Perez saw his opportunity and darted in.

"I know Madrid too much," he said. "All the ways, all the peoples I know. Imposs' you live 'appy in Madrid withouta me." He smiled all over his face—and when he did that he was irresistible. "You try," he concluded, just like a child.

Manvers, on an impulse, drew from his pocket the gold-set crucifix. "Look at that, Gil Perez," he said, and put it in his hands.

Gil looked gravely at it, hack and front. He nodded his approval. "Pretty thing——" and he decided off-hand. "In Valladolid they make."

"Open it," said Manvers; but it was opened, before he had spoken. Gil's eyes widened, while the pupils of them contracted intensely. He read the inscription, pondered it; to the crucifix itself he gave but a momentary glance. Then he shut the case and handed it back to his master.

"I find 'er for you," he said soberly; and that settled it.



CHAPTER XII

A GLIMPSE OF MANUELA

Gil Perez had listened gravely to the tale which his master told him. He nodded once or twice, and asked a few questions in the course of the narrative—questions of which Manvers could not immediately see the bearing. One was concerned with her appearance. Did she wear rings in her ears? He had to confess that he had not observed. Another was interjected when he described how she had grown stiff under his arm when Esteban drew alongside.

Gil had nodded rapidly, and became impatient as Manvers insisted on the fact. "Of course, of course!" he had said, and then he asked, Did she stiffen her arm and point the first and last fingers of it, keeping the middle pair clenched?

Manvers understood him, and replied that he had not noticed any such thing, but that he did not believe she feared the Evil Eye. He went on with his story uninterrupted until the climax. He had found the crucifix, he said, on his return from bathing, and had been pleased with her for leaving it. Then he related the discovery of the body and his talk with Fray Juan de la Cruz. Here came in Gil's third question. "Did she return your handkerchief?" he asked—and sharply.

Manvers started. "By George, she never did!" he exclaimed. "And I don't wonder at it," he said on reflection. "If she had to knife that fellow, and confess to Fray Juan, and escape for her life, she had enough to do. Of course, she may have left it in the wood."

Gil Perez pressed his lips together. "She got it still," he said. "We find 'er—I know where to look for it."

If he did he kept his knowledge to himself, though he spoke freely enough of Manuela on the way to Madrid.

"This Manuela," he explained, "is a Valenciana—where you find fair women with black men. Valencianos like Moors—love too much white women. I think Manuela is not Gitanilla; she is what you call a Alfanalf. Then she is like the Gitanas, as proud as a fire, but all the same a Christian—make free with herself. A Gitana never dare love Christian man—imposs' she do that. Sometimes all the same she do it. I think Manuela made like that."

Committed to the statement, he presently saw a cheerful solution of it. "Soon see!" he added, and considered other problems. "That dead man follow Manuela to kill 'er," he decided. "When 'e find 'er with you, master, 'e say, 'Now I know why you run, hija de perra. Now I kill two and get a 'orse.' You see?"

"Yes," said Manvers, "I see that. And you think that he told her what he meant to do?"

"Of course 'e tell," said Gil Perez with scorn. "Make it too bad for 'er. Make 'er feel sick."

"Brute!" cried Manvers; but Gil went blandly on.

"'E 'ate 'er so much that 'e feel 'ungry and thirsty. 'E eat before 'e kill. Must do it—too 'ungry. Then she go near 'im, twisting 'erself about—showing 'erself to please him. 'You kiss me, my 'eart,' she say; 'I love you all the same. Kiss me—then you kill.' 'E look at 'er—she very fine girl—give pleasure to see. 'E think, 'I love 'er first—strangle after'—and go on looking. She 'old 'im fast and drag down 'is 'ead—all the time she know where 'e keep navaja. She cling and kiss—then nip out navaja, and click! 'E dead man." Enthusiasm burned in his black eyes, he stood cheering in his stirrups. "Senor Don Dios! that very fine! I give twenty dollars to see 'er make 'im love."

Manvers for his part, grew the colder as his man waxed warm. He was clear, however, that he must find the girl and protect her from any trouble that might ensue. She had put herself within the law to save him from the knife; she must certainly be defended from the perils of the law.

From what he could learn of Spanish justice that meant money and influence. These she should have; but there should be no more pastorals. Her kisses had been sweet, the aftertaste was sour in the mouth. Gil Perez with his eloquence and dramatic fire had cured him of hankering after more of them. The girl was a rip, and there was an end of it.

He did not blame himself in the least for having kissed a rip—once. There was nothing in that. But he had kissed her twice—and that second kiss had given significance to the first. To think of it made him sore all over; it implied a tender relation, it made him seem the girl's lover. Why, it almost justified that sick-faced, grinning rascal, whose staring eyes had shocked him out of his senses. And what a damned fool he had made of himself with the crucifix! He ground his teeth together as he cursed himself for a sentimental idiot.

For the rest of the way it was Gil Perez who cried up the quest—until he was curtly told by his master to talk about something else; and then Gil could have bitten his tongue off for saying a word too much.

A couple of days at the Escorial, with nothing of Manuela to interfere, served Manvers to recover his tone. Before he was in the capital he was again that good and happy traveller, to whom all things come well in their seasons, to whom the seasons of all things are the seasons at which they come. He liked the bustle and flaunt of Madrid, he liked its brazen front, its crowded carreras, and appetite for shows. There was hardly a day when the windows of the Puerta del Sol had not carpets on their balconies. Files of halberdiers went daily to and from the Palace and the Atocha, escorting some gilded, swinging coach; and every time the Madrilenos serried and craned their heads. "Viva Isabella!" "Abajo Don Carlos!" or sometimes the other way about, the cries went up. Politics buzzed all about the square in the mornings; evening brimmed the cafes.

Manvers resumed his soul, became again the amused observer. Gil Perez bided his time, and contented himself with being the perfect body-servant, which he undoubtedly was.

On the first Sunday after arrival, without any order, he laid before his master a ticket for the corrida, such a one as comported with his dignity; but not until he was sure of his ground did he presume to discuss the gory spectacle. Then, at dinner, he discovered that Manvers had been more interested in the spectators than the fray, and allowed himself free discourse. The Queen and the Court, the alcalde and the Prime Minister, the manolos and manolas—he had plenty to say, and to leave unsaid. He just glanced at the performers—impossible to omit the espada—Corchuelo, the first in Spain. But the fastidious in Manvers was awake and edgy. He had not liked the bull-fight; so Gil Perez kept out of the arena. "I see one very grand old gentleman there, master," was one of his chance casts. "You see 'im? 'E grandee of Espain, too much poor, proud all the same. Put 'is 'at on so soon the Queen come in—Don Luis Ramonez de Alavia."

"Who's he?" asked Manvers.

"Great gentleman of Valladolid," said Gil Perez. "Grandee of Espain—no money—only pride." He did not add, as he might, that he had seen Manuela, or was pretty sure that he had. That was delicate ground.

But Manvers, who had forgotten all about her, went cheerfully his ways, and amused himself in his desultory fashion. After the close-pent streets of Segovia, where the wayfarer seems throttled by the houses, and one looks up for light and pants towards the stars and the air, he was pleased by the breadth of Madrid. The Puerto del Sol was magnificent—like a lake; the Alcala and San Geronimo were noble rivers, feeding it. He liked them at dawn when the hose-pipe had been newly at work and these great spaces of emptiness lay gleaming in the mild sunlight, exhaling freshness like that of dewy lawns. When, under the glare of noon, they lay slumbrous, they were impressive by their prodigality of width and scope; in the bustle and hum of dusk, with the cafes filling, and spilling over on to the pavements, he could not tire of them; but at night, the mystery of their magic enthralled him. How could one sleep in such a city? The Puerto del Sol was then a sea of dark fringed with shores of bright light. The two huge feeders of it—with what argosies they teemed! Shrouded craft!



That touch of the East, which you can never miss in Spain, wherever you may be, was unmistakable in Madrid, in spite of Court and commerce, in spite of newspaper, Stock Exchange, or Cortes. The cloaked figures moved silently, swiftly, seldom in pairs, without speech, with footfall scarcely audible. Now and again Manvers heard the throb of a guitar, now and again, with sudden clamour, the clack of castanets. But such noises stopped on the instant, and the traffic was resumed—whatever it was—secret, swift, impenetrable business.

For the most part this traffic of the night was conducted by men—young or old, as may be. The capa hid them all, kept their semblance as secret as their affairs. Here and there, but rarely, walked a woman, superbly, as Spanish women will, with a self-sufficiency almost arrogantly strong, robed in white, hooded with a white veil. The mantilla came streaming from the comb, swathed her pale cheeks and enhanced her lustrous eyes; but from top to toe she was (whatever else; she may have been, and it was not difficult to guess) in white.

Manvers watched them pass and repass; at a distance they looked like moths, but close at hand showed the carriage and intolerance of queens. They looked at him fairly as they passed, unashamed and unconcerned. Their eyes asked nothing from him, their lips wooed him not. There was none of the invitation such women extend elsewhere; far otherwise, it was the men who craved, the women who dispensed. When they listened it was as to a petitioner on his knees, when they gave it was like an alms. Imperious, free-moving, high-headed creatures, they interested him deeply.

It was true, as Gil Perez was quick to see, that at his first bull-fight Manvers had been unmoved by the actors, but stirred to the deeps by the spectators; if he had cared to see another it would have been to explore the secrets of this wonderful people, who could become animals without ceasing to be men and women. But why jostle on a bench, why endure the dust and glare of a corrida when you can see what Madrid can show you: the women by the Manzanares, or the nightly dramas of the streets?

Love in Spain, he began to learn, is a terrible thing; a grim tussle of wills, a matter of life and death, of meat and drink. He saw lovers, still as death, with upturned faces, tense and white, eating the iron of guarded balconies. Hour by hour they would stand there, waiting, watching, hoping on. No one interfered, no one remarked them. He heard a woman wail for her lover—wail and rock herself about, careless of who saw or heard her, and indeed neither seen nor heard. Once he saw a couple close together, vehement speech between them. A lovers' quarrel, terrible affair! The words seemed to scald. The man had had his say, and now it was her turn. He listened to her, touched but not persuaded—had his reasons, no doubt. But she! Manvers had not believed the heart of a girl could hold such a gamut of emotions. She was young, slim, very pale; her face was as white as her robe. But her eyes were like burning lakes; and her voice, hoarse though she had made herself, had a cry in it as sharp as a violin's, to out the very soul of you. She spoke with her hands too, with her shoulders and bosom, with her head and stamping foot. She never faltered though she ran from scorn of him to deep scorn of herself, and appealed in turn to his pride, his pity, his honour and his lust. She had no reticence, set no bounds: she was everything, or nothing; he was a god, or dirt of the kennel. In the end—and what a climax!—she stopped in the middle of a sentence, covered her eyes, sobbed, gave a broken cry, turned and fled away.

The man, left alone, spread his arms out, and lifted his face to the sky, as if appealing for the compassion of Heaven. Manvers could see by the light of a lamp which fell upon him that there were tears in his eyes. He was pitying himself deeply. "Senor Jesu, have pity!" Manvers heard him saying. "What could I do? Woe upon me, what could I do?"

To him there, as he stood wavering, returned suddenly the girl. As swiftly as she had gone she came back, like a white squall. "Ah, son of a thief? Ah, son of a dog!" and she struck him down with a knife over the shoulder-blade. He gasped, groaned, and dropped; and she was upon his breast in a minute, moaning her pity and love. She stroked his face, crooned over him, lavished the loveliest vocables of her tongue upon his worthless carcase, and won him by the very excess of her passion. The fallen man turned in her arms, and met her lips with his.

Manvers, shaking with excitement, left them. Here again was a Manuela! Manuela, her burnt face on fire, her eyes blown fierce by rage, her tawny hair streaming in the wind; Manuela with a knife, hacking the life out of Esteban, came vividly before him. Ah, those soft lips of hers could bare the teeth; within an hour of his kissing her she must have bared them, when she snarled on that other. And her eyes which had peered into his, to see if liking were there—how had they gleamed. upon the man she slew? Her sleekness then was that of the cat; but she had had no claws for him.

Why had she left him her crucifix? After all, had she murdered the fellow, or protected herself? She told the monk that she had been driven into a corner—to save Manvers and herself. Was he to believe that—or his own eyes? His eyes had just seen a Spanish girl with her lover, and his judgment was warped. Manuela might be of that sort—she had not been so to him. Nor could she ever be so, since there was no question of love between them now, and never could be.

"Come now," thus he reasoned with himself. "Come now, let us be reasonable." He had pulled her out of a scuffle and she had been grateful; she was pretty, he had kissed her. She was grateful, and had knifed a man who meant him mischief—and she had left him a crucifix.

Gratitude again. What had her gipsy skin and red kerchief to do with her heart and conscience? "Beware, my son, of the pathetic fallacy," he told himself, and as he turned into the carrera San Geronimo, beheld Manuela robed in white pass along the street.

He knew her immediately, though her face had but flashed upon him, and there was not a stitch upon her to remind him of the ragged creature of the plain. A white mantilla covered her hair, a white gown hid her to the ankles. He had a glimpse of a white stocking, and remarked her high-heeled white slippers. Startling transformation! But she walked like a free-moving creature of the open, and breasted the hot night as if she had been speeding through a woodland way. That was Manuela, who had lulled a man to save him.

After a moment or so of hesitation he followed her, keeping his distance. She walked steadily up the carrera, looking neither to right nor to left. Many remarked her, some tried to stop her. A soldier followed her pertinaciously, till presently she turned upon him in splendid rage and bade him be off.

Manvers praised her for that, and, quickening, gained upon her. She turned up a narrow street on the right. It was empty. Manvers, gaining rapidly, drew up level. They were now walking abreast, with only the street-way between them; but she kept a rigid profile to him—as severe, as proud and fine as the Arethusa's on a coin of Syracuse. The resemblance was striking; straight nose, short lip, rounded chin; the strong throat; unwinking eyes looking straight before her; and adding to these beauties of contour her splendid colouring, and carriage of a young goddess, it is not too much to say that Manvers was dazzled.

It is true; he was confounded by the excess of her beauty and by his knowledge of her condition. His experiences of life and cities could give him no parallel; but they could and did give him a dangerous sense of power. This glowing, salient creature was for him, if he would. One word, and she was at his feet.

For a moment, as he walked nearly abreast of her, he was ready to throw everything that was natural to him to the winds. She stirred a depth in him which he had known nothing of. He felt himself trembling all over—but while he hesitated a quick step behind caused him to look round. He saw a man following Manuela, and presently knew that it was Gil Perez.

And Gil, with none of his own caution, walked on her side of the street and, overtaking her, took off his hat and accosted her by some name which caused her to turn like a beast at bay. Nothing abashed, Gil asked her a question which clapped a hand to her side and sent her cowering to the wall. She leaned panting there while he talked rapidly, explaining with suavity and point. It was very interesting to Manvers to watch these two together, to see, for instance, how Gil Perez comported himself out of his master's presence; or how Manuela dealt with one of her own nation. They became strangers to him, people he had never known. He felt a foreigner indeed.

The greatest courtesy was observed, the most exact distance. Gil Perez kept his hat in his hand, his body at a deferential angle. His weaving hands were never still. Manuela, her first act of royal rage ended, held herself superbly. Her eyes were half closed, her lips tightly so; and she so contrived as to get the effect of looking down upon him from a height. Manvers imagined that his name or person was being brought into play, for once Manuela looked at her companion and bowed her head gravely. Gil Perez ran on with his explanations, and apparently convinced her judgment, for she seemed to consent to something which he asked of her; and presently walked on her way with a high head, while Gil Perez, still holding his hat, and still explaining, walked with her, but a little way behind her.

A cooling experience. Manvers strolled back to his hotel and his bed, with his unsuspected nature deeply hidden again out of sight. He wondered whether Gil Perez would have anything to tell him in the morning, or whether, on the other hand, he would be discreetly silent as to the adventure. He wondered next where that adventure would end. He had no reason to suppose his servant a man of refined sensibilities. Remembering his eloquence on the road to Madrid, the paean he blew upon the fairness of Valencian women, he laughed. "Here's a muddy wash upon my blood-boltered pastoral," he said aloud. "Here's an end of my knight-errantry indeed!"

There was nearly an end of him—for almost at the same moment he was conscious of a light step behind him and of a sharp stinging pain and a blow in the back. He turned wildly round and struck out with his stick. A man, doubled in two, ran like a hare down the empty street and vanished into the dark. Manvers, feeling sick and faint, leaned to recover himself against a doorway, and probably fell; for when he came to himself he was in his bed in the hotel, with Gil Perez and a grave gentleman in black standing beside him.



CHAPTER XIII

CHIVALRY OF GIL PEREZ

He felt stiff and stupid, with a roasting spot in his back between his shoulders; but he was able to see the light in Gil Perez' eyes—which was a good light, saying, "Well so far—but I look for more." Neither Gil nor the spectacled gentleman in black—the surgeon, he presumed—spoke to him, and disinclined for speech himself, Manvers lay watching their tip-toe ministrations, with spells of comfortable dozing in between, in the course of which he again lost touch with the world of Spain.

When he came to once more he was much better and felt hungry. He saw Gil Perez by the window, reading a little book. The sun-blinds were down to darken the room; Gil held his book slantwise to a chink and read diligently, moving his lips to pronounce the words.

"Gil Perez," said Manvers, "what are you reading?" Gil jumped up at once.

"You better, sir? Praised be God! I read," he said, "a little catholic book which calls itself 'The Garden of the Soul'—ver' good little book. What you call ver' 'ealthy—ver' good for 'im. But you are better, master. You 'ungry—I get you a broth." Which he did, having it hot and hot in the next room.

"Now I tell you all the 'istory of this affair," he said. "Last night I see Manuela out a walking. I follow 'er too much—salute 'er—she lift 'er 'ead back to strike me dead. I say, 'Senorita, one word. Why you give your crucifix to my master—ha?' Sir, she began to shake—'ead shake, knee shake; I think she fall into 'erself. You see flowers in frost all estiff, stand up all right. By'nbye the sun, 'e climb the sky—thosa flowers they fall esquash—all rotten insida. So Manuela fall into 'erself. Then I talk to 'er—she tell me all the 'istory of thata time. She kill Esteban Vincaz, she tell me—kill 'im quick, just what I told you. Becausa why? Becausa she dicksure Esteban kill you. But I say to 'er, Manuela, that was too bad, lady. Kill Esteban all the same. Ver' good for 'im, send 'im what you call kingdom-come like a shot. But you leava that crucifix on my master's plate—make 'im tender, too sorry for you. He think, Thata nice girl, very. I like 'er too much. Now 'e 'as your crucifix in gold, lika piece of Vera Cruz, lika Santa Teresa's finger, and all the world know you kill Esteban Vincaz and 'e like you. Sir, I make 'er sorry—she begin to cry. I think—" and Gil Perez walked to the window—"I think Manuela ver' fine girl—like a rose. Now, master—" and he returned to the bed—"I tell you something. That man who estab you las' night was Tormillo. You know who?"

Manvers shook his head. "Never heard of him, my friend. Who is he?"

"He is servant to Don Luis Ramonez, the same I see at the corrida. I tell you about 'im—no money, all pride."

Manvers stared. "And will you have the goodness to tell me why Don Luis should want to have me stabbed?"

"I tell you, sir," said Gil Perez. "Esteban Vincaz was Don Bartolome Ramonez, son to Don Luis. Bad son 'e was, if you like, sir. Wil' oats, what you call. All the sama nobleman, all the sama only son to Don Luis."

Manvers considered this oracle with what light he had. "Don Luis supposes that I killed his son, then," he said. "Is that it?"

"'E damsure," said Gil Perez, blinking fast.

"On Manuela's account—eh?"

"Like a shot!" cried Gil Perez with enthusiasm.

"So of course he thinks it his duty to kill me in return."

"Of course 'e does, sir," said Gil. "I tell you, 'e is proud like the devil."

"I understand you," said Manvers. "But why does he hire a servant to do his revenges?"

"Because 'e think you dog," Gil replied calmly. "'E not beara touch you witha poker."

Manvers laughed, and said, "We'll leave it at that. Now I want to know one more thing. How on earth did Don Luis find out that I was in the wood with Manuela and his son?"

"Ah," said Gil Perez, "now you aska me something. Who knows?" He shrugged profusely. Then his face cleared. "Leave it to me, sir. I ask Tormillo." He was on his feet, as if about to find the assassin there and then.

"Stop a bit," said Manvers, "stop a bit, Gil. Now I must tell you that I also saw Manuela last night."

"Ah," said Gil Perez softly; and his eyes glittered.

"I saw her in the street," Manvers continued, watching his servant. "She was all in white."

Gil Perez blinked this fact. "Yes, sir," he said. "That is true. Poor girl." His eyes clouded over. "Poor Manuela!" he was heard to say to himself.

"I followed her for a while," said Manvers, "and saw you catch her up, and stop her. Then I went away; and then that rascal struck me in the back. Now do you suppose that Don Luis means to serve Manuela the same way?"

Gil Perez did not blink any more. "I think 'e wisha that," he said; "but I think 'e won't."

"Why not?"

"Because I tell Manuela what I see at the corrida. She was there too. She know it already. Bless you, she don't care."

"But I care," said Manvers sharply. "I've got her on my conscience. I don't intend her to suffer on my account."

"That," said Gil Perez, "is what she wanta do." He looked piercingly at his master. "You know, sir, I ask 'er for your 'andkerchief."

"Well?" Manvers raised his eyebrows.

"I tell you whata she do. She look allaways in the dark. Nobody there. Then she open 'er gown—so!" and Gil held apart the bosom of his shirt. "I see it in there." There were tears in Gil's eyes. "Poor Manuela!" he murmured, as if that helped him. "I make 'er give it me. No good she keepa that in there."

"Where is it?" he was asked. He tried to be his jaunty self, but failed.

"Not 'ere, sir. I 'ave it—I senda to the wash." Manvers looked keenly at him, but said nothing. He had a suspicion that Gil Perez was telling a lie.

"You had better get her out of Madrid," he said, after a while. "There may be trouble. Let her go and hide herself somewhere until this has blown over. Give me my pocket-book." He took a couple of bills out and handed them to Gil. "There's a hundred for her. Get her into some safe place—and the sooner the better. We'll see her through this business somehow."

Gil Perez—very unlike himself—suddenly snatched at his hand and kissed it. Then he sprang to his feet again and tried to look as if he had never done such a thing. He went to the door and put his head out, listening. "Doctor coming," he said. "All righta leave you with 'im."

"Of course it's all right," said Manvers. But Gil shook his head.

"Don Luis make me sick," he said. "No use 'e come 'ere."

"You mean that he might have another shot at me?"

Gil nodded; very wide-eyed and serious he was. "'E try. I know 'im too much." Manvers shut his eyes.

"I expect he'll have the decency to wait till I'm about again. Anyhow, I'll risk it. What you have to do is to get Manuela away."

"Yessir," said Gil in his best English, and admitted the surgeon with a bow. Then he went lightfooted out of the room and shut the door after him.

He was away two hours or more, and when he returned seemed perfectly happy.

"Manuela quite safa now," he told his master.

"Where is she, Gil?" he was asked, and waved his hand airily for reply.

"She all right, sir. Near 'ere. Quita safe. Presently I see 'er." He could not be brought nearer than that. Questioned on other matters, he reported that he had failed to find either Don Luis or Tormillo, and was quite unable to say how they knew of his master's relations with the Valencian girl, or what their further intentions were. His chagrin at having been found wanting in any single task set him was a great delight to Manvers and amused the slow hours of his convalescence.

His wound, which was deep but not dangerous, healed well and quickly. In ten days he was up again and inquiring for Manuela's whereabouts. Better not see her, he was advised, until it was perfectly certain that Don Luis was appeased. Gil promised that in a few days' time he would give an account of everything.

It is doubtful, however, whether he would have kept his word, had not events been too many for him. One day after dinner he asked his master if he might speak to him. On receiving permission, he drew him apart into a little room, the door of which he locked.

"Hulloa, Gil Perez," said Manvers, "what is your game now?"

"Sir," said Gil, holding his head up, and looking him full in the face. "I must espeak to you about Manuela. She is in the Carcel de la Corte—to-morrow they take 'er to the Audiencia about that assassination." He folded his arms and waited, watching the effect of his words.

Manvers was greatly perturbed. "Then you've made a mess of it," he said angrily. "You've made a mess of it."

"No mess," said Gil Perez. "She tell me must go to gaol. I say, all righta, lady."

"You had no business to say anything of the sort," Manvers said. "I am sorry I ever allowed you to interfere. I am very much annoyed with you, Perez." He had never called him Perez before—and that hurt Gil more than anything. His voice betrayed his feelings.

"You casta me off—call me Perez, lika stranger! All right, sir—what you like," he stammered. "I tell you, Manuela very fine girl—and why the devil I make 'er bad? No, sir, that imposs'. She too good for me. She say, Don Luis estab my saviour! Never, never, for me! I show Don Luis what's whata, she say. I give myself up to justice; then 'e keepa quiet—say, That's all right. So she say to Paquita—that big girl who sleep with 'er when—when——" he was embarrassed. "Mostly always sleep with 'er," he explained—"She say, 'Give me your veil, Paquita de mi alma.' Then she cover 'erself and say to me, 'Come, Gil Perez.' I say, 'Senorita, where you will.' We go to the Carcel de la Corte. Three or four alguazils in the court see 'er come in; saluta 'er, 'Good-day, senora—at the feet of your grace,' they say; for they think ''ere come a dam fine woman to see 'er lover.' She eshiver and lift 'erself. 'I am no senora,' she essay. 'Bad girl. Nama Manuela. I estab Don Bartolome Ramonez de Alavia in the wood of La Huerca. You taka me—do what you like.' Sir, I say, thata very fine thing. I would kissa the 'and of any girl who do that—same I kiss your 'and." His voice broke. "By God, I would!"

"What next?" said Manvers, moved himself.

"Sir," said Gil Perez, "those alguazils clacka the tongue. 'Soho, la Manola!' say one, and lift 'er veil and look at 'er. All those others come and look too. They say she dam pretty woman. She standa there and look at them, lika they were dirt down in the street. Then I essay, 'Senores, you pleasa conduct this lady to the carcelero in two minutes, or you pay me, Gil Perez, 'er esservant. Thisa lady 'ave friends,' I say. 'Better for you, senores, you fetcha carcelero.' They look at me sharp—and they thinka so too. Then the carcelero 'e come, and I espeak with him and say, 'We 'ave too much money. Do what you like.'"

"And what did he do?" Manvers asked.

"He essay, 'Lady, come with me.' So then we go away witha carcelero, and I eshow my fingers—so—to those alguazils and say, 'Dam your eyes, you fellows, vayan ustedes con Dios!' Then the carcelero maka bow. 'E say to Manuela, 'Senora, you 'ave my littla room. All by yourself. My wifa she maka bed—you first-class in there. Nothing to do with them dogs down there. I give them what-for lika shot,' say the carcelero. So I pay 'im well with your bills, sir, and see Manuela all the time every day."

He took rapid strides across the room—but stopped abruptly and looked at Manvers. There was fire in his eyes. "She lika saint, sir. I catch 'er on 'er knees before our Lady of Atocha. I 'ear 'er words all broken to bits. I see 'er estrike 'er breasts—Oh, God, that make me mad! She say, 'Oh, Lady, you with your sorrow and your love—you know me very well. Bad girl, too unfortunate, too miserable—your daughter all the sama, and your lover. Give me a great 'eart, Lady, that I may tell all the truth—all—all—all! If 'e thoughta well of me,' she say, crying like one o'clock, 'let 'im know me better. No good 'e think me fine woman—no good he kissa me'"—the delicacy with which Gil Perez treated this part of the history, which Manvers had never told him, was a beautiful thing—"'I wanta tell 'im all my 'istory. Then he say, Pah, what a beast! and serva me right.' Sir, then she bow righta down to the grounda, she did, and covered 'er 'ead. I say, 'Manuela, I love you with alla my soul—but you do well, my 'eart.' And then she turn on me and tell me to go quick."

"So you are in love with her, Gil?" Manvers asked him. Gil admitted it.

"I love 'er the minute I see 'er at the corrida. My 'earta go alla water—but I know 'er. I say to myself, "That is la Manuela of my master Don Osmondo. You be careful, Gil Perez.'"

Manvers said, "Look here, Gil, I'm ashamed of myself. I kissed her, you know."

"Yessir," said Gil, and touched his forehead like a groom.

"If I had known that you—but I had no idea of it until this moment. I can only say——"

"Master," said Gil, "saya nothing at all. I love Manuela lika mad—that quite true; but she thinka me dirt on the pavement."

"Then she's very wrong," Manvers said.

"No, sir," said Gil, "thata true. All beautiful girls lika that. I understanda too much. But look 'ere—if she belong to me, that all the same, because I belong to you. You do what you like with 'er. I say, That all the same to me!"

"Gil Perez," said Manvers, "you're a gentleman, and I'm very much ashamed of myself. But we must do what we can for Manuela. I shall give evidence, of course. I think I can make the judge understand."

Gil was inordinately grateful, but could not conceal his nervousness. "I think the Juez, 'e too much friend with Don Luis. I think 'e know what to do all the time before. Manuela have too mucha trouble. Alla same she ver' fine girl, most beautiful, most unhappy. That do 'er good if she cry."

"I don't think she'll cry," Manvers said, and Gil Perez snorted.

"She cry! By God she never! She Espanish girl, too mucha proud, too mucha dicksure what she do with Don Bartolome. She know she serve 'im right. Do againa all the time. What do you think 'e do with 'er when 'e 'ave 'er out there in Pobledo an' all those places? Vaya! I tell you, sir. 'E want to live on 'er. 'E wanta make 'er too bad. Then she run lika devil. Sir, I tell you what she say to me other days. 'When I saw 'im come longside Don Osmundo,' she say, 'I look in 'is face an' I see Death. 'E grin at me—then I know why 'e come. 'E talk very nice—soft, lika gentleman—then I know what 'e want. I say, Son of a dog, never!'"

"Poor girl," said Manvers, greatly concerned.

"Thata quite true, sir," Gil Perez agreed. "Very unfortunate fine girl. But you know what we say in Espain. Make yourself 'oney, we say, and the flies willa suck you. Manuela too much 'oney all the time. I know that, because she tell me everything, to tell you."

"Don't tell me," said Manvers.

"Bedam if I do," said Gil Perez.



CHAPTER XIV

TRIAL BY QUESTION

The court was not full when Manvers and his advocate, with Gil Perez in attendance, took their places; but it filled up gradually, and the Judge of First Instance, when he took his seat upon the tribunal, faced a throng not unworthy of a bull-fight. Bestial, leering, inflamed faces, peering eyes agog for mischief, all the nervous expectation of the sudden, the bloody or terrible were there.

There was the same dead hush when Manuela was brought in as when they throw open the doors of the toril, and the throng holds its breath. Gil Perez drew his with a long whistling sound, and Manvers, who could dare to look at her, thought he had never seen maidenly dignity more beautifully shown. She moved to her place with a gentle consciousness of what was due to herself very touching to see.

The crowded court thrilled and murmured, but she did not raise her eyes; once only did she show her feeling, and that was when she passed near the barrier where the spectators could have touched her by leaning over. More than one stretched his hand out, one at least his walking cane. Then she took hold of her skirt and held it back, just as a girl does when she passes wet paint. This little touch, which made the young men jeer and whisper obscenity, brought the water to Manvers' eyes. He heard Gil Perez draw again his whistling breath, and felt him tremble. Directly Manuela was in her place, standing, facing the assize, Gil Perez looked at her, and never took his eyes from her again. She was dressed in black, and her hair was smooth over her ears, knotted neatly on the nape of her neck.

The Judge, a fatigued, monumental person with a long face, pointed whiskers, and the eyes of a dead fish, told her to stand up. As she was already standing, she looked at him with patient inquiry; but he took no notice of that. Her self-possession was indeed remarkable. She gave her answers quietly, without hesitation, and when anything was asked her which offended her, either ignored it or told the questioner what she thought of it. From the outset Manvers could see that the Judge's business was to incriminate her beyond repair. Her plea of guilty was not to help her. She was to be shown infamous.

The examination ran thus:—

Judge: "You are Manuela, daughter of Incarnacion Presa of Valencia, and have never known your father?" (Manuela bows her head.) "Answer the Court."

Manuela: "It is true."

Judge: "It is said that your father was the gitano Sagruel?"

Manuela: "I don't know."

Judge: "You may well say that. Remember that you are condemning your mother by such answers. Your mother sold you at twelve years old to an unfrocked priest named Tormes?"

Manuela: "Yes. For three pesos."

Judge: "Disgraceful transaction! This wretch taught you dancing, posturing, and all manner of wickedness?"

Manuela: "He taught me to dance."

Judge: "How long were you in his company?"

Manuela: "For three years."

Judge: "He took you from fair to fair. You were a public dancer?"

Manuela: "That is true."

Judge: "I can imagine—the court can imagine—your course of life during this time. This master of yours, this Tormes, how did he treat you?"

Manuela: "Very ill."

Judge: "Be more explicit, Manuela. In what way?"

Manuela: "He beat me. He hurt me."

Judge: "Why so?"

Manuela: "I cannot tell you any more about him."

Judge: "You refuse?"

Manuela: "Yes."

Judge: "The court places its interpretation upon your silence." (He looked painfully round as if he regretted the absence of the proper means of extracting answers. Manvers heard Gil Perez curse him under his breath.)

The Judge made lengthy notes upon the margin of his docquet, and then proceeded.

Judge: "The young gentleman, Don Bartolome Ramonez, first saw you at the fair of Salamanca in 1859?"

Manuela: "Yes."

Judge: "He saw you often, and followed you to Valladolid, where his father Don Luis lived?"

Manuela: "Yes."

Judge: "He professed his passion for you, gave you presents?"

Manuela: "Yes."

Judge: "You persuaded him to take you away from Tormes?"

Manuela: "No."

Judge: "What do I hear?"

Manuela: "I said 'No.' It was because he said that he loved me that I went with him. He wished to marry me, he said."

Judge: "What! Don Bartolome Ramonez marry a public dancer! Be careful what you say there, Manuela."

Manuela: "He told me so, and I believed him."

Judge: "I pass on. You were with him until the April of this year—you were with him two years?"

Manuela: "Yes."

Judge: "And then you found another lover and deserted him?"

Manuela: "No. I ran away from him by myself."

Judge: "But you found another lover?"

Manuela: "No."

Judge: "Be careful, Manuela. You will trip in a moment. You ran away from Don Bartolome when you were at Pobledo, and you went to Palencia. What did you do there?"

Manuela: "I cannot answer you."

Judge: "You mean that you will not?"

Manuela: "I mean that I cannot."

Judge: "This is wilful prevarication again. I have authority to compel you."

Manuela: "You have none."

Judge: "We shall see, Manuela, we shall see. You left Palencia on the 12th of May in the company of an Englishman?"

Manuela: "Yes."

Judge: "He is here in court?"

Manuela: "Yes."

Judge: "Do you see him at this moment?"

Manuela: "Yes." (But she did not turn her head to look at Manvers until the Judge forced her.)

Judge: "I am not he. I am not likely to have taken you from Palencia and your proceedings there. Look at the Englishman." (She hesitated for a little while, and then turned her eyes upon him with such gentle modesty that Manvers felt nearer to loving her than he had ever done. He rose slightly in his seat and bowed to her: she returned the salute like a young queen. The Judge had gained nothing by that.) "I see that you treat each other with ceremony; there may be reasons for that. We shall soon see. This gentleman then took you away from Palencia in the direction of Valladolid, and made you certain proposals. What were they?"

Manuela: "He proposed that I should return to Palencia."

Judge: "And you refused?"

Manuela: "Yes."

Judge: "Why?"

Manuela: "I could not go back to Palencia."

Judge: "Why?"

Manuela: "There were many reasons. One was that I was afraid of seeing Esteban there."

Judge: "You mean Don Bartolome Ramonez de, Alavia?" (She nodded.) "Answer me."

Manuela: "Yes, yes."

Judge: "You are impatient because your evil deeds are coming to light. I am not surprised; but you must command yourself. There is more to come." (Manvers, who was furious, asked his advocate whether something could not be done. Directly her fear of Esteban was touched upon, he said, the Judge changed his tactics. The advocate smiled. "Be patient, sir," he said. "The Judge has been instructed beforehand." "You mean," said Manvers, "that he has been bribed?" "I did not say so," the advocate replied.)

The Judge returned to Palencia. "What other reasons had you?" was his next question, but Manuela was clever enough to see where her strength lay. "My fear of Esteban swallowed all other reasons." She saved herself, and with unconcealed chagrin the Judge went on towards the real point.

Judge: "The Englishman then made you another proposal?"

Manuela: "Yes, sir. He proposed to take me to a convent."

Judge: "You refused that?"

Manuela: "No, sir. I should have been glad to go to a convent."

Judge: "You, however, accepted his third proposal, namely, that you should be under his protection?"

Manuela: "I was thankful for his protection when I saw Esteban coming."

Judge: "I have no doubt of that. You had reason to fear Don Bartolome's resentment?"

Manuela: "I knew that Esteban intended to murder me."

Judge: "Don Bartolome overtook you. You were riding before the Englishman on his horse?"

Manuela: "Yes. I could not walk. I was ill."

Judge: "Don Bartolome remained with you until the Englishman ran away?"

Manuela: "He did not run away. Why should he? He went away on his own affairs."

Judge (after looking at his papers): "I see. The Englishman went away after the pair of you had killed Don Bartolome?"

Manuela: "That is not true. He went away to bathe, and then I killed Esteban with his own knife. I killed him because he told me that he intended to murder me, and the English gentleman who had been kind to me. I confess it—I confessed it to the alguazils and the carcelero. You may twist what I say as you will, to please your friends, but the truth is in what I say."

Judge: "Silence! It is for you to answer the questions which I put to you. You forget yourself, Manuela. But I will take your confession as true for the moment. Supposing it to be true, did you not stab Don Bartolome in the neck in order that you might be free?"

Manuela: "I killed him to defend myself and an innocent person. I have told you so."

Judge: "Why should Don Bartolome wish to kill you?"

Manuela: "He hated me because I had refused to do his pleasure. He wished to make me bad——"

Judge (lifting his hands and throwing his head up): "Bad! Was he not jealous of the Englishman?"

Manuela: "I don't know."

Judge: "Did he not tell you that the Englishman was your lover? Did you not say so to Fray Juan de la Cruz?"

Manuela: "He spoke falsely. It was not true. He may have believed it."

Judge: "We shall see. Have patience, Manuela. Having slain your old lover, you were careful to leave a token for his successor. You left more than that: your crucifix from your neck, and a message with Fray Juan?"

Manuela: "Yes. I told Fray Juan the whole of the truth, and begged him to tell the gentleman, because I wished him to think well of me. I told him that Esteban——"

Judge: "Softly, softly, Manuela. Why did you leave your crucifix behind you?"

Manuela: "Because I was grateful to the gentleman who had saved my life at Palencia; because I had nothing else to give him. Had I had anything more valuable I would have left it. Nobody had been kind to me before."

Judge: "You know what he has done with your crucifix, Manuela?"

Manuela: "I do not."

Judge: "What are you saying?"

Manuela: "The truth."

Judge: "I have the means of confuting you. You told Fray Juan that you were going to Madrid?"

Manuela: "I did not."

Judge: "In the hope that he would tell the Englishman?"

Manuela: "If he told the gentleman that, he lied."

Judge: "It is then a singular coincidence which led to your meeting him here in Madrid?"

Manuela: "I did not meet him."

Judge: "Did you not meet him a few nights before you surrendered to justice?"

Manuela: "No."

Judge: "Did you meet his servant?"

Manuela: "I cannot tell you."

Judge: "Did not the Englishman pay for your lodging in the Carcel de la Corte? Did he not send his servant every day to see you?"

Manuela: "The gentleman was lying wounded at the hotel. He had been stabbed in the street."

Judge: "We are not discussing the Englishman's private affairs. Answer my questions?"

Manuela: "I cannot answer them."

Judge: "You mean that you will not, Manuela. Did you not know that the Englishman caused your crucifix to be set in gold, like a holy relic?"

Manuela: "I did not know it."

Judge: "We have it on your own confession that you slew Don Bartolome Ramonez in the wood of La Huerca, and you admit that the Englishman was protecting you before that dreadful deed was done, that he has since paid for your treatment in prison, and that he has treasured your crucifix like a sacred relic?"

Manuela: "You are pleased to say these things. I don't say them. You wish to incriminate a person who has been kind to me."

Judge: "I will ask you one more question, Manuela. Why did you give yourself up to justice?"

Manuela (after a painful pause, speaking with high fervour and some approach to dramatic effect): "I will answer you, senor Juez. It was because I knew that Don Luis would contrive the death of Don Osmundo if I did not prove him innocent."

Judge (rising, very angry): "Silence! The court cannot entertain your views of persons not concerned in your crime."

Manuela: "But——" (She shrugged, and looked away.)

Judge: "You can sit down."



CHAPTER XV

NEMESIS—DON LUIS

Manvers' reiterated question of how in the name of wonder Don Luis or anybody else knew what he had done with Manuela's crucifix was answered before the day was over; but not by Gil Perez or the advocate whom he had engaged to defend the unhappy girl.

This personage gave him to understand without disguise that there was very little chance for Manuela. The Judge, he said, had been "instructed." He clung to that phrase. When Manvers said, "Let us instruct him a little," he took snuff and replied that he feared previous "instruction" might have created a prejudice. He undertook, however, to see him privately before judgment was delivered, but intimated that he must have a very free hand.

Manvers' rejoinder took the shape of a blank cheque with his signature upon it. The advocate, fanning himself with it in an abstracted manner, went on to advise the greatest candour in the witness-box. "Beware of irritation, dear sir," he said. "The Judge will plant a banderilla here and there, you may be sure. That is his method. You learn more from an angry man than a cool one. For my own part," he went on, "you know how we stand—without witnesses. I shall do what I can, you may be sure."

"I hope you will get something useful from the prisoner," Manvers said. "A little of Master Esteban's private history should be useful."

"It would be perfectly useless, if you will allow me to say so," replied the advocate. "The Judge will not hear a word against a family like the Ramonez. So noble and so poor! Perhaps you are not aware that the Archbishop of Toledo is Don Luis' first cousin? That is so."

"But is that allowed to justify his rip of a son in goading a girl on to murder?" cried Manvers.

The advocate again took snuff, shrugging as he tapped his fingers on the box. "The Ramonez say, you see, sir, that Don Bartolome may have threatened her, moved by jealousy. Jealousy is a well-understood passion here. The plea is valid and good."

"Might it not stand for Manuela too?" he was asked.

"I don't think we had better advance it, Don Osmundo," he said, after a significant pause.

Gil Perez, pale and all on edge, had been walking the room like a caged wolf. He swore to himself—but in English, out of politeness to his master. "Thata dam thief! Ah, Juez of my soul, if I see you twist in 'ell is good for me." Presently he took Manvers aside and, his eyes full of tears, asked him, "Sir, you escusa Manuela, if you please. She maka story ver' bad to 'ear. She no like—I see 'er red as fire, burn like the devil, sir. She ver' unfortunata girl—too beautiful to live. And all these 'ogs—Oh, my God, what can she do?" He opened his arms, and turned his pinched face to the sky. "What can she do, Oh, my God?" he cried. "So beautiful as a rose, an' so poor, and so a child! You sorry, sir, hey?" he asked, and Manvers said he was more sorry than he could say.

That comforted him. He kissed his master's hand, and then told him that Manuela was glad that he knew all about her. "She dam glad, sir, that I know. She say to me las' night—'What I shall tell the Juez will be the very truth. Senor Don Osmundo shall know what I am,' she say. 'To 'im I could never say it. To thata Juez too easy say it. To-morrow,' she say, ''e know me for what I am—too bad girl!'"

"I think she is a noble girl," said Manvers. "She's got more courage in her little finger than I have in my body. She's a girl in a thousand."

Gil Perez glowed, and lifted up his beaten head. "Esplendid—eh?" he cried out. "By God, I serve 'er on my knees!"

On returning to the court, the beard and patient face of Fray Juan greeted our friend. He had very little to testify, save that he was sure the Englishman had known nothing of the crime. The prisoner had told him her story without haste or passion. He had been struck by that. She said that she killed. Don Bartolome in a hurry lest he should kill both her and her benefactor. She had not informed him, nor had he reported to the gentleman, that she was going to Madrid. The Englishman said that he intended to find her, and witness had strongly advised him against it. He had told him that his motives would be misunderstood. "As, in fact, they have been, brother?" the advocate suggested. Fray Juan raised his eyebrows, and sighed. "Quien sabe?" was his answer.

Manvers then stood up and spoke his testimony. He gave the facts as the reader knows then, and made it clear that Manuela was in terror of Esteban from the moment he appeared, and even before he appeared. He had noticed that she frequently glanced behind them as they rode, and had asked her the reason. Her fear of him in the wood was manifest, and he blamed himself greatly for leaving her alone with the young man.

"I was new to the country, you must understand," he said. "I could see that there was some previous acquaintance between those two, but could not guess that it was so serious. I thought, however, that they had made up their differences and gone off together when I returned from bathing. When Pray Juan showed me the body and told me what had been done I was very much shocked. It had been, in one sense, my fault, for if I had not rescued her, Esteban would not have suspected me, or intended my death. That I saw at once; and my desire of meeting Manuela again was that I might defend her from the consequences of an act which I had, in that one sense, brought about—to which she had, at any rate, been driven on my account."

"I will ask you, sir," said the Judge, "one question upon that. Was that also your motive in having the crucifix set in pure gold?"

"No," said Manvers, "not altogether. I doubt if I can explain that to you."

"I am of that opinion myself," said the Judge, with an elaborate bow. "But the court will be interested to hear you."

The court was.

"This girl," Manvers said, "was plainly most unfortunate. She was ragged, poorly fed, had been ill-used, and was being shamefully handled when I first saw her. I snatched her out of the hands of the wretches who would have torn her to pieces if I had not interfered. From beginning to end I never saw more shocking treatment of a woman than I saw at Palencia. Not to have interfered would have shamed me for life. What then? I rescued her, as I say, and she showed herself grateful in a variety of ways. Then Esteban Vincaz came up and chose to treat me as her lover. I believe he knew better, and think that my horse and haversack had more to do with it. Well, I left Manuela with him in the wood—hardly, I may suggest, the act of a lover—and never saw Esteban alive again. But I believe Manuela's story absolutely; I am certain she would not lie at such a time, or to such a man as Fray Juan. The facts were extraordinary, and her crime, done as it was in defence of myself, was heroic—or I thought so. Her leaving of the crucifix was, to me, a proof of her honest intention. I valued the gift, partly for the sake of the giver, partly for the act which it commemorated. She had received a small service from me, and had returned it fifty-fold by an act of desperate courage. To crown her charity, she left me all that she had in the world. I do not wonder myself at what I did. I took the crucifix to a jeweller at Valladolid, had it set as I thought it deserved—and I see now that I did her there a cruel wrong."

"Permit me to say, sir," said the triumphant Judge, "that you also did Don Luis Ramonez a great service. Through your act, however intended, he has been enabled to bring a criminal to justice."

"I beg pardon," said Manvers, "she brought herself to justice—so soon as Don Luis Ramonez sent his assassin out to stab me in the back, and in the dark. And this again was a proof of her heroism, since she thought by these means to satisfy his craving for human blood."

Manvers spoke incisively and with severity. The court thrilled, and the murmuring was on his side. The Judge was much disturbed. Manuela alone maintained her calm, sitting like a pensive Hebe, her cheek upon her hand.

The Judge's annoyance was extreme. It tempted him to wrangle.

"I beg you, sir, to restrain yourself. The court cannot listen to extraneous matter. It is concerned with the consideration of a serious crime. The illustrious gentleman of your reference mourns the loss of his only son."

"I fail," said Manvers, "to see how my violent death can assuage his grief." The Judge was not the only person in court to raise his eyebrows; if Manvers had not been angry he would have seen the whole assembly in the same act, and been certified that they were not with him now. His advocate whispered him urgently to sit down. He did, still mystified. The Judge immediately retired to consider his judgment.

Manvers' advocate left the court and was away for an hour. He returned very sedately to his place, with the plainly expressed intention of saying nothing. The court buzzed with talk, much of it directed at the beautiful prisoner, whose person, bearing, motives, and fate were freely discussed. Oddly enough, at that moment, half the men in the hall were ready to protect her.

Manvers felt his heart beating, but could neither think nor speak coherently. If Manuela were to be condemned to death, what was he to do? He knew not at all; but the crisis to which his own affairs and his own life were now brought turned him cold. He dared not look at Gil Perez. The minutes dragged on——

The Judge entered the court and sat in his chair. He looked very much like a codfish—with his gaping mouth and foolish eyes. He pulled one of his long whiskers and inspected the end of it; detected a split hair, separated it from its happier fellows, shut his eyes, gave a vicious wrench to it and gasped as it parted. Then he stared at the assembly before him, as if to catch them laughing, frowned at Manvers, who sat before him with folded arms; lastly he turned to the prisoner, who stood up and looked him in the face.

"Manuela," he said, "you stand condemned upon your own confession of murder in the first degree—murder of a gentleman who had been your benefactor, of whose life and protection you desired, for reasons of your own, to be ridded. The court is clear that you are guilty and cannot give you any assurance that your surrender to justice has assisted the ministers of justice. Those diligent guardians would have found you sooner or later, you may be sure. If anyone is to be thanked it is, perhaps, the foreign gentleman, whose candour"—and here he had the assurance to make Manvers a bow—"whose candour, I say, has favourably impressed the court. But, nevertheless, the court, in its clemency, is willing to allow you the merits of your intention. It is true that justice would have been done without your confession; but it may be allowed that you desired to stand well with the laws, after having violated them in an outrageous manner. It is this desire of yours which inclines the court to mercy. I shall not inflict the last penalty upon you, nor exact the uttermost farthing which your crime deserves. The court is willing to believe that you are penitent, and condemns you to perpetual seclusion in the Institution of the Recogidas de Santa Maria Magdalena."

Manuela was seen to close her eyes; but she collected herself directly. She looked once, piercingly, at Manvers, then surrendered herself to him who touched her on the shoulder, turned, and went out of the court.

Everybody was against her now: they jeered, howled, hissed and cursed her. A spoiled plaything had got its deserts. Manvers turned upon them in a white fury. "Dogs," he cried, "will nothing shame you?" But nobody seemed to hear or heed him at the moment, and Gil Perez whispered in his ear, "That no good, master. This canalla all the same swine. You come with me, sir, I tell you dam good thing." He had recovered his old jauntiness, and swaggered before his master, clearing the way with oaths and threatenings.

Manvers followed him in a very stern mood. By the door he felt a touch on the arm, and turning, saw a tall, elderly gentleman cloaked in black. He recognised him at once by his hollow eye-sockets and smouldering, deeply set eyes. "You will remember me, senor caballero, in the shop of Sebastian the goldsmith," he said; and Manvers admitted it. He received another bow, and the reminder. "We met again, I think, in the Church of Las Angustias in Valladolid."

"Yes, indeed," Manvers said, "I remember you very well."

"Then you remember, no doubt, saying to me with regard to your crucifix, which I had seen in Sebastian's hands, then in your own, that it was a piece of extravagance on your part. You will not withdraw that statement to-day, I suppose."

That which lay latent in his words was betrayed by the gleam of cold fire in his eyes. Manvers coloured. "You have this advantage of me, senor," he said, "that you know to whom you are speaking, and I do not."

"It is very true, senor Don Osmundo," the gentleman said severely. "I will enlighten you. I am Don Luis Ramonez de Alavia, at your service."

Manvers turned white. He had indeed made Manuela pay double. So much for sentiment in Spain.



CHAPTER XVI

THE HERALD

A card of ample size and flourished characters, bearing the name of El Marques de Fuenterrabia, was brought up by Gil Perez.

"Who is he?" Manvers inquired; and Gil waved his hand.

"This olda gentleman," he explained, "'e come Embassador from Don Luis. 'E say, 'What you do next, senor Don Osmundo?' You tell 'im, sir—is my advice."

"But I don't know what I am going to do," said Manvers irritably. "How the deuce should I know?"

"You tell 'im that, sir," Gil said softly. "Thata best of all."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, sir, then 'e tell you what Don Luis, 'e do."

"Show him in," said Manvers.

The Marques de Fuenterrabia was a white-whiskered, irascible personage, of stately manners and slight stature. He wore a blue frock-coat, and nankeen trousers over riding-boots. His face was one uniform pink, his eyes small, fierce, and blue. They appeared to emit heat as well as light; for it was a frequent trick of their proprietor's to snatch at his spectacles and wipe the mist from them with a bandana handkerchief. Unglazed, his eyes showed a blank and indiscriminate ferocity which Manvers found exceedingly comical.

They bowed to each other—the Marques with ceremonious cordiality, Manvers with the stiffness of an Englishman to an unknown visitor. Gil Perez hovered in the background, as it were, on the tips of his toes.

The Marques, having made his bow, said nothing. His whole attitude seemed to imply, "Well, what next?"

Manvers said that he was at his service; and then the Marques explained himself.

"My friend, Don Luis Ramonez de Alavia," he said, "has entrusted me with his confidence. It appears that a series of occurrences, involving his happiness, honour and dignity at once, can be traced to your Excellency's intromission in his affairs. I take it that your Excellency does not deny——"

"Pardon me," Manvers said, "I deny it absolutely."

The Marques was very much annoyed. "Que! Que!" he muttered and snatched off his spectacles. Glaring ferociously at them, he wiped them with his bandana.

"If Don Luis really imagines that I compassed the death of his son," said Manvers, "I suppose he has his legal remedy. He had better have me arrested and have done with it."

The Marques, his spectacles on, gazed at the speaker with astonishment. "Is it possible, sir, that you can so misconceive the mind of a gentleman as to suggest legal process in an affair of the kind? Whatever my friend Don Luis may consider you, he could not be guilty of such a discourtesy. One may think he is going too far in the other direction, indeed—though one is debarred from saying so under the circumstances. But I am not here to bandy words with you. My friend Don Luis commissions me to ask your Excellency, for the name of a friend, to whom the arrangements may be referred for ending a painful controversy in the usual manner. If you will be so good as to oblige me, I need not intrude upon you again."

"Do you mean to suggest, senor Marques," said Manvers, after a pause, "that I am to meet Don Luis on the field?"

"Pardon?" said the Marques, in such a way as to answer the question.

"My dear sir," he was assured, "I would just as soon fight my grandfather. The thing is preposterous." The Marques gasped for air, but Manvers continued. "Had your friend's age been anywhere near my own, I doubt if I could have gratified him after what took place the other day. He caused a man of his to stab me in the back as I was walking down a dark street. In my country we call that a dastard's act."

The Marques started, and winced as if he was hurt; but he remembered himself and the laws of warfare, and when he spoke it was within the extremes of politeness.

"I confess, sir," he said, "that I was not prepared for your refusal. It puts me in a delicate position, and to a certain extent I must involve my friend also. It is my duty to declare to you that it is Don Luis' intention to break the laws of Spain. An outrage has been committed against his house and blood which one thing only can efface. Moved by extreme courtesy, Don Luis was prepared to take the remedy of gentlemen; but since you have refused him that, he is driven to the use of natural law. It will be in your power—I cannot deny—to deprive him of that also; but he is persuaded that you will not take advantage of it. Should you show any signs of doing so, I am to say, Don Luis will be forced to consider you outside the pale of civilisation, and to treat you without any kind of toleration. To suggest such a possibility is painful to me, and I beg your pardon very truly for it."

In truth the Marques looked ashamed of himself.

Manvers considered the very oblique oration to which he had listened. "I hope I understand you, senor Marques," he said. "You intend to say that Don Luis means to have my life by all means?"

The Marques bowed. "That is so, senor Don Osmundo."

"But you suggest that it is possible that I might stop him by informing the authorities?"

"No, no," said the Marques hastily, "I did not suggest that. The authorities would never interfere. The British Embassy might perhaps be persuaded—but you will do me the justice to admit that I apologised for the suggestion."

"Oh, by all means," said Manvers. "You thought pretty badly of me—but not so badly as all that."

"Quite so," said the Marques; and then the surprising Gil Perez descended from mid-air, and lowed to the stranger.

"My master, Don Osmundo, senor Marques, is incapable of such conduct," said he—and looked to Manvers for approval.

He struggled with himself, but failed. His guffaw must out, and exploded with violent effect. It drove the Marques back to the door, and sent Gil Perez scudding on tiptoe to the window.

"You are magnificent, all of you!" cried Manvers. "You flatter me into connivance. Let me state the case exactly. Don Luis is to stab or shoot me at sight, and I am to give him a free hand. Is that what you mean? Admirable. But let me ask you one question. Am I not supposed to protect myself?"

The Marques stared. "I don't think I perfectly understand you, Don Osmundo. Reprisals are naturally open to you. We declare war, that is all."

"Oh," said Manvers. "You declare war? Then I may go shooting, too?"

"Naturally," said the Marques. "That is understood."

"No dam fear about that," said Gil Perez to his master.



CHAPTER XVII

LA RECOGIDA

Sister Chucha, the nun who took first charge of newcomers to the Penitentiary, was fat and kindly, and not very discreet. It was her business to measure Manuela for a garb and to see to the cutting of her hair. She told the girl that she was by far the most handsome penitent she had ever had under her hands.

"It is a thousand pities to cut all this beauty away," she said; "for it is obvious you will want it before long. So far as that goes you will find the cap not unbecoming; and I'll see to it that you have a piece of looking-glass—though, by ordinary, that is forbidden. Good gracious, child, what a figure you have! If I had had one quarter of your good fortune I should never have been religious."

She went on to describe the rules of the Institution, the hours and nature of the work, the offices in Chapel, the recreation times and hours for meals. Manuela, she said, was not the build for rope and mat work.

"I shall get Reverend Mother to put you to housework, I think," she said. "That will give you exercise, and the chance of an occasional peep at the window. You don't deserve it, I fancy; but you are so handsome that I have a weakness for you. All you have to do is to speak fairly to Father Vicente and curtsey to the Reverend Mother whenever you see her. Above all, no tantrums. Leave the others alone, and they'll let you alone. There's not one of them but has her scheme for getting away, or her friend outside. That's occupation enough for her. It will be the same with you. Your friends will find you out. You'll have a novio spending the night in the street before to-morrow's over unless I am very much mistaken." She patted her cheek. "I'll do what I can for you, my dear."

Manuela curtseyed, and thanked the good nun. "All I have to do," she said, "is to repent of my sin—which has become very horrible to me."

"La-la-la!" cried Sister Chucha. "Keep that for Father Vicente, if you please, my dear. That is his affair. Our patroness led a jolly life before she was a saint. No doubt, you should not have stabbed Don Bartolome, and of course the Ramonez would never overlook such a thing. But we all understand that you must save your own skin if you could—that's very reasonable. And I hear that there was another reason." Here she chucked her chin. "I don't wonder at it," she said with a meaning smile.

The girl coloured and hung her head. She was still quivering with the shame of her public torture. She could still see Manvers' eyes stare chilly at the wall before them, and believe them to grow colder with each stave of her admissions. Her one consolation lay in the thought that she could please him by amendment and save him by a conviction; so it was hard to be petted by Sister Chucha. She would have welcomed the whip, would have hugged it to her bosom—the rod of Salvation, she would have called it; but compliments on her beauty, caresses of cheek and chin—was she not to be allowed to be good? As for escape, she had no desire for that. She could love her Don Osmundo best from a distance. What was to be gained, but shame, by seeing him?

Her shining hair was cut off; the cap, the straight prison garb were put on. She stood up, slim-necked, an arrowy maid, with her burning face and sea-green eyes chastened by real humility. She made a good confession to Father Vicente, and took her place among her mates.

It was true, what Sister Chucha had told her. Every penitent in that great and gaunt building was thrilled with one persistent hope, worked patiently with that in view, and under its spell refrained from violence or clamour. There was not one face of those files of grey-gowned girls which, at stated hours, entered the chapel, knelt at the altar, or stooped at painful labour through the stifling days, which did not show a gleam. Stupid, vacant, vicious, morose, pretty, sparkling, whatever the face might be, there was that expectation to redeem or enhance it, to make it human, to make it womanish. There was, or there would be, some day, any day, a lover outside—to whom it would be the face of all faces.

Manuela had not been two hours in the company of her fellow-prisoners before she was told that there were two ways of escape from the Recogidas. Religion or marriage these were; but the religious alternative was not discussed.

Sister Chucha, it transpired, had chosen that way—"But do you wonder?" cried the girl who told Manuela, with shrill scorn. Most of the sisters had once been penitents—"Vaya! Look at them, my dear!" cried this young Amazon, conscious of her own charms.

She was a plump Andalusian, black-eyed, merry, and quick to change her moods. Love had sent her to Saint Mary Magdalene, and love would take her out again.

That Chucha, she owned, was a kind soul. She always put the pretty ones to housework—"it gives us a chance at the windows. I have Fernando, who works at the sand-carting in the river. He never fails to look up this way. Some day he will ask for me." She peered at herself in a pail of water, and fingered her cap daintily. "How does my skirt hang now, Manuela? Too short, I fancy. Did you ever see such shoes as they give you here! Lucky that nobody can see you."

This was the strain of everybody's talk in the House of Las Recogidas—in the whitewashed galleries where they walked in squads under the eye of a nun who sat reading a good book against the wall, in the court where they lay in the shade to rest, prone, with their faces hidden in their arms, or with knees huddled up and eyes fixed in a stare. They talked to each other in the hoarse, tearful staccato of Spain, which, beginning low, seems to gather force and volume as it runs, until, like a beck in flood, it carries speaker and listener over the bar and into tossing waves of yeasty water.

Manuela, through all, kept her thoughts to herself, and spoke nothing of her own affairs. There may have been others like her, fixed to the great achievement of justifying themselves to their own standard: she had no means of knowing. Her standard was this, that she had purged herself by open confession to the man whom she loved. She was clean, sweetened and full of heart. All she had to do was to open wide her house that holiness might enter in.

Besides this she had, at the moment, the consciousness of a good action; for she firmly believed that by her surrender to the law she had again saved Manvers from assassination. If Don Luis could only cleanse his honour by blood, he now had her heart's blood. That should suffice him. She grew happier as the days went on.

Meanwhile it was remarked upon by Mercedes and Dolores, and half a dozen more, that distinguished strangers came to the gallery of the chapel. The outlines of them could be descried through the grille; for behind the grille was a great white window which threw them into high relief.

It was the fixed opinion of Mercedes and Dolores that Manuela had a novio.



CHAPTER XVII

THE NOVIO

It is true that Manvers had gone to the Chapel of the Recogidas to look for, or to look at, Manuela. This formed the one amusing episode in his week's round in Madrid, where otherwise he was extremely bored, and where he only remained to give Don Luis a chance of waging his war.

To be shot at in the street, or stabbed in the back as you are homing through the dusk are, to be sure, not everybody's amusements, and in an ordinary way they were not those of Mr. Manvers. But he found that his life gained a zest by being threatened with deprivation, and so long as that zest lasted he was willing to oblige Don Luis. The weather was insufferably hot, one could only be abroad early in the morning or late at night—both the perfection of seasons for the assassin's game.

Yet nothing very serious had occurred during the week following the declaration of war. Gil Perez could not find Tormillo, and had to declare that his suspicions of a Manchegan teamster, who had jostled his master in the Puerta del Sol and made as if to draw his knife, were without foundation. What satisfied him was that the Manchegan, that same evening, stabbed somebody else to death. "That show 'e is good fellow—too much after 'is enemy," said Gil Perez affably. So Manvers felt justified in his refusal to wear mail or carry either revolver or sword-stick; and by the end of the week he forgot that he was a marked man.

On Sunday he told Gil Perez that he intended to visit the Chapel of the Recogidas.

The rogue's face twinkled. "Good, sir, good. We go. I show you Manuela all-holy like a nun. I know whata she do. Look for 'eaven all day. That Chucha she tell me something—and the portero, 'e damgood fellow."

Resplendent in white duck trousers, Mr. Manvers was remarked upon by a purely native company of sightseers. Quick-eyed ladies in mantillas were there, making play with their fans and scent-bottles; attendant cavaliers found something of which to whisper in the cool-faced Englishman with his fair beard, blue eyes, and eye-glass, his air of detachment, which disguised his real feelings, and of readiness to be entertained, which they misinterpreted.

The facts were that he was painfully involved in Manuela's fate, and uncomfortably near being in love again with the lovely unfortunate. She was no longer a pretty thing to be kissed, no longer even a handsome murderess; she was become a heroine, a martyr, a thing enskied and sainted.

He had seen more than he had been meant to see during his ordeal in the Audiencia—her consciousness of himself, for instance, as revealed in that last dying look she had given him, that long look before she turned and followed her gaolers out of court. He guessed at her agonies of shame, he understood how it was that she had courted it; in fine, he knew very well that her heart was in his keeping—and that's a dangerous possession for a man already none too sure of the whereabouts of his own.

When the organ music thrilled and opened, and the Recogidas filed in—some hundred of them—his heart for a moment stood still, as he scanned them through the gloom. They were dressed exactly alike in dull clinging grey, all wore close-fitting white caps, were nearly all dead-white in the face. They all shuffled, as convicts do when they move close-ordered to their work afield.

It shocked him that he utterly failed to identify Manuela—and it brought him sharply to his better senses that Gil Perez saw her at once. "See her there, master, see there my beautiful," the man groaned under his breath, and Manvers looked where he pointed, and saw her; but now the glamour was gone. Gil was her declared lover. The Squire of Somerset could not stoop to be his valet's rival.

The Squire of Somerset, however, observed that she held herself more stiffly than her co-mates, and shuffled less. The prison garb clothed her like a weed; she had the trick of wearing clothes so that they draped the figure, not concealed it, were as wax upon it, not a cerement. That which fell shapeless and heavily from the shoulders of the others, upon her seemed to grow rather from the waist—to creep upwards over the shoulders, as ivy steals clinging over a statue in a park. Here, said he, is a maiden that cannot be hid. Call her a murderess, she remains perfect woman; call her convict, Magdalen, she is some man's solace. He looked: at Gil Perez, motionless and intent by his side, and heard his short breath: There is her mate, he thought to himself, and was saved.