XXVII.
The Matador.
Youth despairs easily. The young, unused to sorrow, sink beneath a burden that the aged would bear without a murmur; unused to life, they put the cup aside as soon as the taste grows bitter. But the rebound is easy also. At any moment hope may revive; the flowers may bloom and the birds sing again.
It was wonderful, considering all the circumstances, that Walter Grey did not die. But since life remained, it was not wonderful that even in the galleys his crushed heart began to recover itself, under the combined influences of heavenly hope, and of the thoughtful and generous ministrations of his new friend.
It had at first been no trifling ingredient in his cup of bitterness that the robbers and murderers amongst whom he toiled looked upon him as a wretch infinitely more degraded than themselves. Even the Quatrero was wont to play the Pharisee, and, crossing himself devoutly, to thank God that he was not as this English heretic. But things were altered now. He was beginning to be regarded by his comrades as a person of distinction rather, and one whose intercession might upon occasion do them a good turn. At least he could and did procure for them, or share with them, many a valued gift, including the much-prized tobacco. They thought he owed the special favour he enjoyed to his extremely youthful appearance; José always called him “El Mozo”—the lad.
“Ask our Indian, next time he comes, to tell us his master’s name and his own,” said Walter’s comrades to him one day.
And Walter did so.
José smiled at the question; and very readily informed him that his patre was called Fray Fernando, and “a man more like a saint there never was in the world,” he added. But when pressed to tell his own name, he returned an evasive answer, saying that the rowers ought first to tell him theirs. It was wonderful how far José contrived to lay aside the reserved and stately dignity of his ordinary bearing, and to assume a frank and friendly, even a jovial manner, in talking with these poor men. For it was absolutely necessary to his plans that they should all regard him with confidence, as a friend. Yet he drew the line somewhere; he never touched them.
They complied, gladly enough, with his request; the more hardened telling him their sobriquets with coarse jests and oaths, which he fortunately did not understand. At last, however, it came to the turn of Walter’s special friend, who said simply, “I am called the matador.”
“Matador!” José repeated. “That means—man who slays a bull.”
Great was the astonishment and admiration with which this evidence of José’s knowledge inspired the galley-slaves; and it was certainly remarkable in an Indian.
“And did you really slay a bull, señor matador?” he questioned with interest.
“No, Señor Indio. I only wounded him, and saved a gentleman from being gored.”
“Tell the story, matador,” cried several voices.
“There is none to tell,” said the matador, who, except to his immediate neighbours, rarely spoke at all, and still more rarely spoke of himself. Being, however, urged by José to relate the circumstances, he did so briefly. “Some twelve years ago,” he said, “before we came to the New World, when my arm was stronger, I sat on the first bench, and had leave to go on shore at Carthagena. There was to be a bull-feast the next day; and they were driving the beasts into the city—all the world out to gaze at them, of course. In old days, I knew something of the ring myself. So I must needs stand and gaze with the rest. The first bull was stupid, and made no sport. But the second was an ugly-looking beast—a dry, tough fellow, lean and sharp-horned—”
“Ay, ay,” cried one Spaniard after another, in high delight at hearing once more the language of the sport all had loved in former years; “we know that sort. Hard to kill. No flinchers.”
“Pues,” the matador went on, “the poor beast was driven mad by the shouts of the bystanders, and the blows of their goads and sticks. He broke out of the line; and, not knowing his real tormentors, stood roaring and pawing with fury. At last he put his head down as if he meant mischief, and made a determined rush at a dainty young hidalgo who had been doing nothing at all, but who happened to be dressed that day in a new scarlet doublet with a montero to match. He was a brave man, and had his tool ready in an instant. Still, it might have gone hard with him, only that I, knowing the business, snatched a long knife from a butcher who stood at the door of his stall, and turned the creature’s rage against myself. I managed to keep him busy till they rescued me. I could have killed him, of course; but I knew better. Who, I pray you, was to pay for him if I did?”
“I hope the gentleman you rescued paid you?” Walter threw in.
“Oh yes; he behaved well to me. He would gladly have ransomed me, but that could not be. So he lined my pocket with good gold doubloons, and procured me every favour and indulgence in his power. But, enough of me.—Señor Indio, your turn is come now. Slaves though we may be, we like to thank our benefactors, and it is therefore only in reason that we should know their names.”
“You will be little advantaged by knowing mine. Your countrymen call me Don José Viracocha Inca.”
From the much prized Spanish title all present gathered that their Indian friend was a person of distinction; but the rest fell unnoticed on every ear save that of Walter, who started and looked up, with curiosity and interest in his face.
It is not true that romance dies quickly, blighted by the frosts of cold reality. On the contrary, no part of our being is more tenacious of life. It partakes of the nature of perfume,—spiritual, intangible, apparently evanescent, yet lingering strangely and mysteriously in the withered leaf or blossom long after the bright colours have faded, and the very garden where they bloomed has become a desolate waste. The Indian’s quaint, high-sounding name had in it a perfume of old romance that brought back the thoughts of Walter Grey to the familiar room where he had first read the story of Pizarro’s daring and his guilt, and where his young heart had first kindled over those wild, splendid dreams of the lake of Parima, and of the golden city of Manoa. He had a hundred questions to ask the Indian, who soon afforded him an opportunity of putting them, by passing along the benches to distribute the contents of his fruit basket, and stopping, as he always did, near Walter.
José briefly satisfied his curiosity. Yes, he was really a Child of the Sun. Was he proud of his origin? An expressive smile was the answer. Did he worship the sun? No, assuredly; he was a Christian. “But,” leaning over Walter and whispering, “I have hopes of obtaining from the señor commandante permission for you to come on shore. Then I will tell you of my people; and you, in return, will tell me of yours.”
“Don José Viracocha Inca, what has moved you to show me such singular kindness?”
José lowered his voice still further. “You are an Englishman, therefore the Inca’s friend,” he murmured.
Walter looked up wondering. “If in any way I could reward you—,” he began.
“That you can. When you regain your freedom and go home, tell your King what I have just said.”
He was gone ere Walter could answer that he was never likely to go home.
“Matador,” he said that night to his companion, “I am troubled about our Indian friend. What can I do to recompense him? I shall never see my home again—how, then, can I tell king or queen of his strange kindness and friendship?”
“Tell it to the great King,” said the old galley-slave in reply.