CHAPTER VII

THE HALT IN A CORK WOOD

Next morning betimes we left the venta of Castellar where, overnight, we had spent so many pleasant hours. The Major Don Joaquim was very curious to know the object of our mission to Seville, of which he announced himself a well-known citizen; but we declined to state the reason of our visit in uniform to that far-famed city; neither did we mention that our business lay with no less a personage than the captain-general of Los Cuatros Reinos.

In a country like Spain, where the people are so jealous of their national honour and so revengeful, we did not conceive that it would be conducive to our safety to state that we were the identical officers whose affair with the guarda costa had caused so much heartburning for some weeks past, and so much correspondence between our governor and the minister Espartero; so, somewhat piqued by our reserve, the major gave us a formal bow, and clambered into the vehicle which was to convey him to Medina. We separated, the convoy of calessos got into motion after much noise and vociferation on the part of the drivers, the stable-boys, the hostalero, and the passengers, who were all gabbling at once in full-toned Spanish as they rolled away under the escort of a party of very ill-appointed dragoons in the service of Donna Isabella la Catolica, while we rode off in the opposite direction towards Alcala de los Gazules, a small town, which lies on the Seville road, and through which we passed soon after.

"Let us push on," said I, to interrupt Jack, who had been rallying me pretty smartly about Donna Paulina, and vowing that all this affair of a trip to Seville had been foreseen and preconcerted by me for the purpose of meeting her again and continuing a flirtation which was a source of great merriment to the regiment. "Let us push on, Jack, for I feel very anxious——"

"To reach Seville, of course; but it won't run away; we shall find it in its proper place on the left bank of the Guadalquiver."

"You mistake me. I was thinking how awkward it would be for us if the Himalaya was to come round during our absence; and if on our return we should find the whole regiment embarked and steaming away for the Crimea."

"Awkward! I should think so, rather; but it is not likely they can decamp in such a hurry. After all we heard last night about the restless habits of the good people in these mountains, and their vague or peculiar ideas regarding property, together with the eccentricities of this Don Fabrique, do we not run a little risk in proceeding without an escort?"

"There is risk, certainly; but our return is not to be thought of till the duty is done."

"Of course not—what would the regiment say?"

"And what should we think of ourselves?"

"We are, I hope, a match for any six Spaniards, with our swords and revolvers, in fighting; and with these good nags under us I should think we are more than a match for them in flying. But the noon is becoming so hot that I propose we should halt under that grove of cork-trees and there take a siesta."

We halted accordingly at the base of a steep mountain chain, between the cleft peaks of which a noonday-flood of yellow light was gushing. Sterile, abrupt, and bare above us rose the ridgy rocks: the little valley at the base was teeming with verdure and fertility, but it was silent and solitary, for not a sound was heard save the murmur of a stream which bubbled from a fissure in a vine-covered cliff. It meandered between meadows of aromatic plants, and sought deep pools over which the oleander and the bay threw their branches, and the cool shady thickets of the dark wood of olive and cork-trees.

Just where we dismounted, we found a personage lounging on the grass. He was smoking a cigar, and had a long gun beside him. Without rising for a minute nearly, he scrutinised us and our horses with marked curiosity. His costume was somewhat gay, being in the highest style of the bull-ring, or that of a majo or dandified Spanish ladrone, whose free aspect and gallant air make him the admiration of the dark-eyed paisanas and the envy of their more peaceful male relatives; for the majo is the bravo of our own time.

This personage wore an ample brown cloak, which hung loosely about his shoulders, a black velvet sombrero, with a large tuft of black plush on one side thereof, and under its deep rim his coal-black hair fell in heavy locks, and his flashing eyes watched all our motions, with an indescribable expression of stealth and suspicion. A long knife and a pair of brass-butted pistols were in his gaudy sash; he wore leathern gaiters, and was playing with the blade of a navaja, or clasp-knife, about ten inches long—a deadly instrument, which the Spaniard is never without, for therewith he cuts his 'carne' and bread, or his bacallao in Lent, slices his melon in summer, and slashes the face of any person with whom he may chance to differ in opinion. Indeed, the visage of this lounger bore the very unmistakable mark of a long slash which had once laid it open from eye to chin. Beside him stood a beautiful Andalusian jennet, high of head, and bold in chest; its gaily-fringed bridle was thrown over the branch of an olive tree, and it was accoutred with a high-peaked saddle of antique form, covered by a piece of white sheepskin, which was spread also over a pair of holsters.

"Buenos dias, señor," said I; "a good morning—I fear we are disturbing you."

"Not at all, señores—the greensward, the shadow of those trees, and the waters of this stream, flowing from yonder sierra, belong to us all in common. Sit down, señores, and halter your horses, as you see I have haltered mine. You belong to the Gibraltar garrison, I presume—right—you are Inglesos."

"No, Brittanicos," said I, with a smile.

"And whither go ye?"

"To Seville."

"Ah, would I were going with you: it is a place of joy and merriment, Seville. The sun shines on it once every day of the year; yet I go there but seldom. Allow me to make you each a cigarillo."

"With pleasure."

To have declined would have been an affront as great as to refuse a proffered snuff-mull in the country of the clans. Our Spaniard produced one of those little books of soft blank paper (almost the only volumes used in Spain), and tore out three leaves; he then took tobacco from his silk pouch and made up three little cigars very neatly and adroitly; but twice during the operation I detected his stealthy eyes scanning us from under his bushy eyebrows.

My little box of patent lights excited his wonder and admiration, as he was about to exert his patience by having recourse to the antiquated flint and steel. Then Jack Slingsby produced his travelling flask; I brought forth mine, and the Spaniard had a capacious bota of wine, a drinking cup of leather, a piece of bacallao and biscuits; and we were just proceeding to lunch, when his Andalusian jennet pricked up its ears and neighed uneasily.

"Maldito!" said our companion, as a scowl came over his visage and his hand fell mechanically on the lock of his gun; "some one approaches."

"An old woman on a donkey, and nothing more," said Slingsby, carelessly; "amigo mio, you look as much alarmed as if you expected the terrible Fabrique de Urquija, or Juan Roa of Antequera."

The keen eyes of the Spaniard flashed, and he looked at Jack as if he would have pierced him through.

"I fear neither Don Fabrique nor any other man," said he gruffly; "a woman on a burro—oh—it must be poor Sister Santa Veronica, of Estrelo, a town about a league distant."

"How is she named so?" I asked.

"After the blessed Santa Veronica who wiped the pale face of our Lord, when dying upon his cross," replied the Spaniard, lowering his head; "and as she did so, on her kerchief there became impressed the most wondrous of religious miracles—the Santa Faz—the holy countenance of Jaen, where it is still preserved in our cathedral, and from which the portraits of our Saviour are all taken; hence it is that his sad and upturned face, with its crown of bloody thorns and curling heard, and the long yellow hair parted over the smooth pale brow, are so well known over all the Christian world."

As he spoke, an elderly woman, habited like a nun, in a coarse and well-patched dress of black serge, with a hood of spotless white linen folded across her brow and chin, and having its long ends drooping lappetwise down her withered cheeks, rode up to us on a donkey, which displayed—what one seldom sees in a Spanish ass—evident signs of being ill-fed and ill-groomed. The nun, who had a careworn, grave, and, though stern, not unpleasing expression of face, carried a covered basket on her arm. Our companion sprang to his feet, and, doffing his sombrero, hastened to meet her and to hold the bridle of her animal.

She was abroad, as she told us, begging alms and food for the sisters of her convent—ten ladies—all of whom were of noble rank, but the most of whose kinsmen had fallen in battle under Don Ramon de Cabrera, and thus left them friendless. They were now, by the confiscation of the ecclesiastical revenues, and the seizure of those sums which they had paid as a dowry into the convent treasury, reduced to extreme penury in their old age, and were driven from their pleasant convent in the beautiful vega of Jaen; since then they had endeavoured to perform the duties of their order, and to serve God, in a poor and half-ruined house, which belonged to a noble, charitable. and religious lady, Donna Dominga de Lucena, y Colmenar de Orieja, at Estrelo; and now would not the noble Caballeros give something to the poor ladies of Santa Theresa, however small, for the love of God and of blessed charity?

All this, which she prettily told, was addressed to us, rather than to the stranger, at whom she glanced uneasily from time to time, although he stood bare-headed, with the deepest respect, and holding her burro by the bridle.

The circumstance of the sisterhood being befriended by the mother of Donna Paulina would have sufficed to interest us, if the wrong done them by the present Government of Spain had failed to do so. Our purses were at once produced, and we respectfully raised our caps on presenting the poor nun with a few pillared dollars, which no doubt she little expected from two heretical Brittanicos.

They had been robbed of everything, she continued—at least, all save their cases of reliques and the bones of Santa Theresa, which they had borne on their shoulders in sad procession from Jaen to Estrelo; and, moreover, they had lost the wonderful portrait of their patroness, which had been seized and sold by those hijos de Luiz Philipe, the men of the new administration; but it was no fault of the present Queen of Spain, for poor Isabella la Catolica had wept her eyes out in the cause of the poor monks and nuns. The señores had, no doubt, heard of the wonderful portrait of the blessed Theresa?

In great sorrow we professed our ignorance thereof.

"Madre Mia! It was said to be an Alonzo Cano, and had narrowly escaped the clutches of the Marshals Soult and Massena, when they swept away the golden moidores of the Portuguese and the divine Murillos of the Spaniards. It belonged to the chapel in which the saint was baptized, and was quite as veritable and wonderful as the holy countenance of Jaen, and was usually placed over the great altar; but one day when the chapel was undergoing repair, it was placed at the porch, where it was seen by a certain ruined gamester—a savage and desperate fellow, worse than Juan Roa or Don Fabrique, as he came past that way. In a fit of mad despair, having just lost everything, he struck his dagger into the bosom of the picture, from which there immediately gushed out a torrent of blood in the sight of the terrified people; while a faint cry was heard in the air, as of one in pain afar off."

"And the gamester?"

"Went raving mad and died, chained like a wild beast in the Gaza de Locos of Jaen."

To our gift, our companion added a doubloon, a present so valuable that it excited our surprise and kindled the fear of the poor nun, who accepted it with reluctance, and, with abundance of genuflections and thanks, whipped up her burro, which trotted away.

"Shall I not have the honour of escorting you to Estrelo, reverend señora?" cried our friend, hurrying after her.

"Muchos gratias—no, no! a thousand thanks, señor," she replied, hurriedly; "no one will molest a poor sister of Santa Theresa."

Her ill-concealed repugnance to receive his alms evidently impressed the Spaniard, who seated himself in silence, and smoked with a sullen expression, as if somewhat depressed by the whole affair; but Jack Slingsby, who hated silence more than anything in the world, began to make some casual inquiries as to whether or not the famous Urquija had been heard of hereabout, and where he was generally to be found.

"Found," reiterated the Spaniard, with a frown of surprise; "he is often found by those who least like such a discovery."

"So it seems," replied Jack, "and by the accounts we heard of him at the—how do you name it?—the venta last night, he seems to be ripe fruit for the gallows."

"Indeed," said the Spaniard, quietly making up another cigarillo, "you are very loud, Señor Viajador, (traveller), in condemning this poor son of Andalusia, this Don Fabrique; but you do so simply because you know nothing about him; being, like most Englishmen, totally ignorant of every country except your own portion of Britain, and, believing that whatever is not English must be radically, physically, and morally wrong, you have come among us predisposed to ridicule and to condemn."

"The deuce!" said Jack, with an air of pique; "I beg to assure you, my fine fellow, that I could tell you a story of a posada——"

"Enough, señor," replied the other, waving his hand with great dignity of manner, while a savage gleam shot over his stealthy eyes; "but allow me to inform you that a bandit—I do not mean a pitiful picaro who steals purses and pocket-handkerchiefs on the prado, or a swindling raterillo who cheats at cards, but an armed robber (and here his hand struck the butt of his escopeta)—is a modern Spanish hero, and the pretty paisana and the bluff muleteer sing of his exploits in the same breath with those of Rodrigo de Bivar, the Cid Campeador, Hernando de Cordova, and the chiefs of the war of Independence, when we saw the fields of Vimiero, of Talavera and Rorica; lend a new lustre to the names of Mina, of Murillo, and of Wellington!"

"Very likely; but this Don Fabrique commits such devilish atrocities, and all that sort of thing," urged Jack, closing with his incessant phrase.

"Do you know why poor Fabrique took his gun and stiletto, and went to the mountains?"

"Shall I tell you?"

"If you please."

"Listen. There was an abogado, a lawyer of Jaen, named Jacop el Escribano, who married the aunt of Fabrique—an aunt who had been a mother to him after his own died, or rather was murdered by the Chapelgorri's. She tended him, reared him, loved and educated him at Alcala, and he was to be her heir, for she was rich, and had mines of quicksilver and cinnabar on the confines of Murcia; and her heir he had every right to be, for other kindred she had none. Well, this good aunt fell sick; those who were more than usually acute, or more than usually evil-minded, said that the abogado had poisoned her mentally and bodily. At all events he wrote out her will, which bequeathed all her property to himself, whom failing, to a certain Gil Jacop, his son by a former marriage, and to poor Fabrique, the son of her dead brother, not a peseta, not a pistareen! This limb of Satan and the law, succeeding in all his ends and objects, poisoned her ears against the poor student of Alcala. Well, the aunt died. Full of sorrow Fabrique hastened to his home to find the door of it shut in his face, and the malicious abogado in possession of everything, even to his aunt's snuff-box and armed chair. Our poor student rushed to the Alcalde, who heard him with a smile of incredulity—why? because he was the cousin of the abogado, and he, too, shut his door in the face of Fabrique. Bursting with indignation he sought the corregidor, to pour out anew the story of his wrongs; but, ay de mi! the corregidor, a Commander of the Knights of Calatrava, was to dine that day with the abogado, who had invited half the city to feast, and weekly gave a magnificent tertulia in the house of the dead woman.

"Fabrique lost all patience and, swore a dreadful vow of vengeance, so the wise, just, and most illustrious corregidor expelled him from the city, and by the alguazils he was driven forth by the Audujar gate. His last money was in his pocket; so he bought a dagger and musket, and shaking the dust off his feet at the puerta de Audujar, he gathered together a band of gallant spirits who had followed Juan Roa, and betook himself to the mountains, leaving the abogado in possession of his aunt's house and her mines upon the Murcian frontier."

"And did he enjoy them long?" I asked.

The Spaniard smiled grimly, and took a long quaff of the bota.

"You wish to know, señor?'

"Exceedingly."

"Listen. A week after these events our abogado disappeared from Jaen, and no man knew whence he had gone, and few cared. A month after, a poor wretch, half crazed and in rags, emaciated, pale and hollow-cheeked by hunger, illness, agony, and wandering, and whose vision had been destroyed by the simple application of a red-hot ramrod, was found near a village of the Sierra de Ronda. It was Jacop el Escribano—whose scribbling was at an end, and whose eyes were closed on the world for ever."

"And his son, Gil Jacop?"

"Was found shot one fine morning at the corner of that road, just where you see a rough wooden cross, erected by the curate in memory of the affair, and to beg a prayer of every passer-by for the dead man's sinful soul. The corregidor has thrice been robbed of all he possessed—his rents, fees, and the revenue of his commanderie; and the alcalde has quite as often been beaten to the very verge of death. Evil-disposed people lay those things to the charge of Don Fabrique; but I say nothing, having no opinion on the subject."

"Then you are afraid of him?" said Jack, laughing.

"Afraid—ha, ha!" said the Spaniard, taking up his long gun; "no—not so much as you were afraid of Juan Roa and Martin Secco, on that night in the 'Posada del Cavallo' at Malaga.

"How know you of that affair?" asked Jack, starting to his feet.

"Did I not hear it told at full length last night in the venta at Castellar?"

"Were you there?" I inquired, with surprise.

"You saw a goatherd present—an old fellow with a sheep-skin dress, a long beard, a crook, and bota."

"Yes."

"'T was I. Last night I was a goatherd, because it suited my purpose to appear so, and to laugh at the terror of those miserable soap-boilers on hearing the whistle of bullets in the Sierra; to-day I am Fabrique de Urquija, the friend of poor Juan Roa; and had you been less kind to that poor nun than you were, it was my intention to have shot and robbed you both, which I could easily have done, despite your swords and revolvers, your English impudence and cool assurance. Vaya usted con Dios, and may you have a pleasant ride to Seville; but attend more to the rules of common politeness when next you speak of Urquija beyond the security of your own lines at Gibraltar. I am not a bad fellow, señores, at times, though more apt to take the advice of a curer of fish than a curer of souls in Lent."

With these words he leaped on his horse, and slinging his long gun by his right leg, galloped into the cork wood, and disappeared.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE ALCALDE.

This rencontre, by illustrating the danger of lingering and of making chance acquaintance—dangers for which no credit would be given by the Horse Guards, and against which we found no hints afforded by our "John Murray"—caused us to hasten through Estrelo without paying a visit to the nuns of Santa Theresa, which (on the base of our acquaintance with Sister Veronica) we had proposed to do; and a ride of ten miles further, through a fruitful and beautiful district, brought us to the ancient ducal town of Medina Sidonia, where the Spanish commandant invited us to dinner, and where, finding ourselves in safe quarters, we spent a pleasant evening, and with cigars and Ciudad Real, Tresillo and Monte, whiled away the hours until we retired to our posada, where we slept undisturbed by rats or robbers, as quietly as if we had been in the best hotel in London.

We crossed a stream next day, and arrived at Arcos de la Frontierra, a picturesque little town, situated upon a lofty rock, almost insulated by the Guadalete, and so difficult of access on the south and west that we had some trouble in discovering an entrance to it anywhere.

The aspect of the place, with all its flat-roofed or red-tiled houses clustering on the summit of a steep and abrupt rock; its two large parish churches, with the square campanile of Santa Maria, and the façade of the palace of the reverend the vicar-general to the metropolitan of Seville, all lit up by the flush of a Spanish setting sun, and throwing a huge broad shadow across the girdling Guadalete, and that rich undulating country which stretches far away beyond it, pleased me so much that, dismounting at the foot of the eminence, I seated myself among some fallen walls and prostrate columns—doubtless fragments of the ancient Arcobriga—to make a little sketch of the place.

Reclined against a mass of vine-covered ruin, Slingsby of "Ours" had fallen fast asleep with his horse's bridle buckled over his left arm, and both he and the nag occupied a prominent place in the foreground of my view, and a wayside cross, covered with rich creepers, and having a sulky-looking raven seated on its summit, was in the middle distance. My labours proceeded rapidly and greatly to my own satisfaction when they were suddenly interrupted by a heavy hand being roughly laid on my shoulder. I looked up. Four men, muffled in the inevitable, invariable, and eternal dirty brown cloak, in which we always see the mysterious characters stride, swagger, and swell on the boards of minor theatres, and which a Spaniard is never without, under any circumstances, appeared beside me. Two had drawn swords, and two cocked blunderbusses.

"The señores will understand that they are our prisoners?" said one.

"Who the deuce are you—comrades of Don Fabrique, I suppose?"

"Heaven forbid! we are honest men—alguazils of Arcos, and the Caballeros must both come before the señor alcalde."

"For what purpose?" I demanded hastily.

"The señor will soon be informed," said one.

"To his cost, perhaps," added a second.

"Vaya, come along," growled a third, "or it may be the worse for you."

Finding expostulation vain, I roused Jack, who after revolving in his own mind whether or not he ought to revolve them—for his pistol had six barrels, we took our horses by their bridles, and accompanied the bravo-like alguazils, whose good-will we sought to cultivate by being liberal with our cases of cheroots.

The alcalde, a bustling little manufacturer of Cordovan leather, received us in his office, stuck his barnacles on his nose, summoned his escribano, and opened the case with an air of awful pomp and chilling consequence; but he seemed to be about as well qualified for the office of lawgiver as Mr. Justice Shallow.

"The señores, who seemed to be British officers belonging to the garrison of Gibraltar, of which her Most Catholic Majesty Donna Isabella is sovereign, whatever Queen Victoria may assert to the contrary, were found making a sketch—a military sketch, no doubt—of her ancient city of Arcos, in the province of Andalusia; and the señores, of course, knew the law framed by the Cortes on that point."

"Of sketching the city of Arcos?"

"No."

"What then?"

"Any city," returned the fussy little alcalde.

"But this is not a fortified town."

"But it might be fortified."

"No doubt—but it is not fortified at the present moment."

"Tonto de mi! what does that matter?"

"Why you stupid old——" Jack Slingsby was beginning, but I placed a hand upon his mouth, and the irritable little alcalde continued.

"For what purpose was the sketch—this sketch made?—answer me that, señor."

"To please myself and to show my friends."

"Of course, a likely story truly," he sneered, as he deliberately tore my poor production into several pieces, threw them into the brassero of charcoal which glowed in the centre of the apartment, and watched until every fragment was entirely consumed. I gazed at him in silence, but feeling an emotion of considerable disgust; for although well aware that to sketch any fortified place or garrison town, barrack, or citadel, was strictly forbidden, it never occurred to me that the restriction could apply to the miserable conglomeration of Spanish huts and crumbling Moorish hovels which clustered round the churches on the rock of Arcos; but in their ignorance of the arts the Spaniards, like the Turks, cannot see a difference between a little artistic sketch and a regular plan drawn for the most desperate military purposes.

"So we are suspected of being spies," said Slingsby; "I am glad that sketching was omitted in my education, and that I never could draw aught but a cork or a bill in my life."

"But this may prove no matter for laughter, Jack," said I, as the alcalde, with awful gravity, after duly entering our names and designations in a huge tome, turned to another part thereof, wiped his spectacles and addressed us. I must own to feeling some uneasiness, having once had a brother officer who went on sick leave to Cadiz, where he was shot as a Christino priest; he was our senior lieutenant, poor Bob Rasper, and was as much like a priest as the great Mogul. I had an uncle who was very near being strangled by an alcalde, who was persuaded he was Don Carlos; and we all know that Lord Carnarvon was well nigh murdered in mistake for Don Miguel, while Captain Widrington was about to be garotted by another official, who thought he might be an agent of Marshal Baldomero Espartero, now first minister of Donna Isabella II. These instances of Spanish justice, clearness, and legal acumen were floating before me when the little ruffian of an alcalde curled up his mustachios and said,—

"The señores will have passports, no doubt?"

"No passports," I replied.

"Demonio!" ejaculated this Andalusian Solon, while the alguazils (having finished their cheroots) began to clank their sabres and cock their ominous-looking trabujos. "Then you must both be sent to prison in irons, and kept under guard until we communicate with Espartero."

We lost alike our patience and temper at this piece of intelligence.

"Beware, señor alcalde," said I, "for the very person you have named may send you to the galleys for this insolent interference. We are two British officers going on public duty to Seville, and being passed through the Spanish lines by the officer commanding there, require no other passports than our swords and our uniform, which you had better respect, or we may play a mischief with you. Our ambassador at Madrid——"

"Vaya usted a los infernos!" exclaimed the alcalde, in a towering fit of official indignation; "I shall show you how we treat those who enter our city of Arcos without proper credentials, and I verily believe you to be a couple of pitiful raterillos. Search and secure them!"

How this affair might have ended, I have no means of knowing; but nothing saved us from much trouble and perhaps danger, but the sudden discovery of a letter, which was found by one of the alguazils who rudely plunged a hand into one of my pockets. It was addressed in high-flowing terms to the most illustrious señor, the captain general of Andalusia, and bore the great official seal of the Governor of Her Britannic Majesty's garrison of Gibraltar. On beholding this, the countenance of the alcalde fell. This human bladder, which was inflated by so much wrath and Jack-in-office pride, suddenly collapsed. His manner changed at once; he was profuse in his apologies, and on a wave of his hand, those alguazils who, a moment before, were ready to drag us to some foul prison and rudely too, like ruffians as they doubtless were, slunk aside and withdrew; and in five minutes after we were mounted, clear of Arcos, and trotting along the road which ascended from the banks of the Guadalete.

"Those Spaniards will never change," said Jack; "they will ever be bullies or cravens; so cudgels or cannon shot are the only means of argument with them."

We then laughed at the whole affair—at the absurd pomposity of the alcalde, and the idea of our being arrested as spies.

At a trot we traversed the little town of Alcantarilla. It lies not far from the Guadalquiver, a stream that wanders through a fertile hollow, which in the days of the Cæsars was a hopeless march. We crossed the bridge which was built by the hands of the Romans, who placed a tower at each end for defence. Slingsby, with a waggish smile, recommended me to make a sketch of these interesting remains; but a wholesome terror of the alcalde of Arcos was yet too fresh in my mind, so we pushed on towards Los Palacies, in company with a long train of mules from the seaport of San Lucar de Barameda. Their drivers were gaily attired, and were all sturdy and hearty fellows, who beguiled the way with stories, laughter, and songs of love and wine, or legends of the Avalos, the Moors of Ronda, and of Bravonnel the Moor of Zaragozza and his ladylove Guadalara, while they sung to the cracking of their whips, the merry jangle of the mule-bells, and the thrum of a guitar. With all this, they were prepared for every emergency, having poniards, blunderbusses, and other weapons—being armed to the teeth, in fact; and with them we travelled until Seville rose before us, with the fretted spires and gothic pinnacles of its cathedral and Alcazar, and the gigantic tower of La Giralda, rising above the domes of the Mohammedan times and the befrays of the Christians; and all steeped in the unclouded blaze of an Andalusian sunset, with the Guadalquiver winding through a low valley in the foreground, bordered by groves of the orange and citron, and the green undulating ridges of the Sierra towering in the distance, with a golden vapour resting on the mellowed peaks, which bound a landscape that, in the days of Alfonso the Wise, was studded by a hundred thousand cottages and oil-mills.

But the Guadalquiver seemed as muddy as the Thames, where it approaches the ancient fane of St. John of Alfarache, and there its turgid tide was lashed and beaten by the steamers from San Lucar; and we could see them ploughing their way (with red lights hanging at their fore cross-trees) into the evening haze that settled over Seville.

Our passports were demanded by the officer commanding an ill-accoutered guard at the gate: but our letter addressed to the captain general freed us from further question, and he politely directed us to an hotel.

We rode through the grass-grown streets of the lazy Sevillanos, I reflecting on stories of Pedro the Cruel and the past glories of the Arab city—Jack Slingsby reflecting on the thoroughfares, which he said "were remarkably dingy, devilish dirty, and all that sort of thing," until we discovered the hotel de la Reyna near the Lonja, or Exchange, and close to the far-famed cathedral church. There we took up our quarters for the night.

"At last we are in Seville!" said I, as I threw myself into a down fauteuil, after tossing off a glass of iced Valdepenas, and flung aside the last week's Madrid papers, the 'Heraldo' and 'España;' "in Seville, where Trajan, Adrian, and Theodosius were born, and where——"

"You shall flirt with the pretty Paulina to-morrow," said Jack; "pass over the decanter; thanks; I can take you off your stilts in a twinkling, my boy."

CHAPTER IX.

THE TERTULIA.

In the morning, after coffee, a devilled bone and a cigar, we sallied forth to deliver the dispatch of our Governor to the captain general, and resolved, soon after, to bid farewell to Seville; for Jack was full of fears that the whole corps would be off, bag and baggage, to fight the Russians before we could return. The hour was somewhat early, so we rambled about the beautiful city; but I do not mean to inflict upon the reader a description of all we saw—of the gay crowds who thronged the Plaza de Toros and the Alameda, with fan and mantilla, sombrero and mantle; of the cathedral of Santa Maria, with its carved buttresses and stupendous spires; of the Alcazar or palace of the Moorish kings, with all its arabesques and oval arches; of the Lonja and the huge tobacco factory. I beg my reader to imagine them all, for I could easily devote five several chapters to describing these five several edifices. It is enough that the Sevillanos have an ancient proverb, that he who never saw Seville has never seen a wonder; to wit—

"Que en no ha visto Sevilla,
Ne ha visto Maravilla."

As we issued from the cathedral, Jack's loquacity was somewhat stilled by the grandeur of that stupendous pile and its dark Murillos, the chief of which is the adoration of the Saviour by St. Anthony of Padua—I beg pardon—of Lisbon and of Lagos—and full of thoughts, which were rather solemn for such fellows as we are, we walked slowly on with our eyes fixed on the far-famed tower of the weathercock—the Giralda—which rises at the north-east angle of the church, when a personage, whose eyes were raised to the same altitude, came somewhat violently against us, and then we poured forth mutual apologies.

"Maldito—come esta, señores; well met."

"Come esta, señor major—who would have thought of meeting you here?"

"Why so?" asked Don Joaquim, for he proved to be our friend of the noble regiment of Lagos; "I think that I mentioned Seville as my native city—so you have reached the end of your journey?"

"Yes, and mean to leave this to-morrow," said Jack.

"So early! Maldito—a short visit. Is your business so soon concluded?"

"It is not yet begun; we have a dispatch for the captain general."

"Indeed!" said he, with wonder in his face.

"Where is his palace? We were just about to inquire the way."

"You must pass the Lonja, our famous Exchange, a triumph of the genius of Juan de Herrera—the architect of the Escurial; well, you must pass it, and cross the Plaza de Toros; but allow me to have the pleasure of escorting you."

"Many thanks."

"None are necessary, señores—hut this dispatch for the captain general—Maldito! I am bursting with irrepressible curiosity to know what it is about. Are we going to war with Russia too?"

"Then, señor," said I, "we may as well inform you that it concerns the killing of a man on board of a Spanish government guarda costa, by a chance shot from the Mole Fort at Gibraltar."

"He was in pursuit of a contrabandista, I presume?"

"Exactly so."

"Ah, those rascally contrabandistas! It is too bad of your Government to protect them—quite as bad as making war on the Chinese because they would not poison themselves with opium. I heard that some of your people had shot at a guarda costa, and killed some one on hoard. It has excited considerable animosity, and been much spoken of."

He led us through several dark and narrow streets, so narrow, indeed, that people could easily have shaken hands from the windows on each side of these quaint old Moorish thoroughfares. Issuing suddenly into the full Haze of the scorching Spanish sunshine, we found ourselves before a handsome palace decorated by Corinthian pilasters, and having its lofty windows covered by external shades of brilliant red and white striped stuff. Two sentinels of the line stood at the portal under sunshades, with their muskets "ordered;" and they stared at our uniform with black and lacklustre eyes.

"The palace of the captain general," said Don Joaquim, bowing; "he has just returned from Jaen, having gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy Face."

"We must have the pleasure of meeting you again," said I.

"Our hotel is the Queen's—de la Reyna—near the Exchange," added Slingsby.

"Oh, I know the place very well," replied the Don, producing his card, a token of civilisation little known in Spain; "my mother gives a tertulia to-night, and we shall be delighted to see you—her reception hour is eight—Donna Dominga de Lucena—Calle del Alcazar."

"You are the son of Donna Dominga, whom we had the pleasure of knowing in Gibraltar?"

"The same, señores. Are you the gentlemen who were so kind and attentive to her? It is quite a little romance this meeting. How odd, to think that we sat a whole night in the venta of Castellar and knew nothing about this! Then, doubtless, one of you must be that accomplished cavalier, Don Leja Mag Leja, concerning whom she wrote me so many letters when I was at Lagos."

With some laughter, we professed that neither of us was the portly Leechy Mac Leechy, to whose name the Donna had given somewhat of a Castilian character in her epistles to the major.

"But about the tertulia? we have no full uniform," urged Jack.

"Full uniform—bagatella!—stuff—come just as you are; but as your business here is about that unlucky guarda costa, 'tis as well my brother Hernan has not arrived; for he is in our naval service, and might feel piqued on the subject. Well, addio—I shall see you at eight to-night—don't forget, the street of the Alcazar," and with a salute he left us.

The sentinels at the door "handled" their arms as we ascended the flight of marble steps which led to the door of the captain general's palace.

"The last general officer with whom I had the honour of an interview was old Towler, of the Kilkenny district," said Slingsby; "I have no idea what manner of man our Spaniard may be."

As the interview with the captain-general and all the various pros and cons thereanent—as a Scotsman would say—may have appeared already among the public intelligence of "our own correspondent," who most likely was not in Seville, and knew nothing about the matter, I will only state that we were received with great urbanity and politeness by the Spanish officer who held the important post of Governor of the four kingdoms. He was a fine old cavalier, and in earlier years had served in the Peninsular war; he told us that he had commanded a regiment under Cuesta; a brigade of Cazadores under Hill, and a division under Murillo; that he had been wounded at Vittoria in attacking the heights of La Puebla, and had received the Grand Cross of the Bath from the hand of the Duke of Wellington, and latterly the Order of Carlos III., which devoted him "to the pure conception of the blessed Virgin Mary," from the Queen and the Patriarch of the Indies, at the solemn chapter held in 1853. The old fellow's eyes kindled with pleasure as he invited us to lunch, and to share with him a bottle of choice Valdepenas, saying that he loved the sight of the red coat for the memory of the olden time that would never come again—the poor red coats—he had often seen them lying thick enough on many a Spanish plain, and in many a crumbling breach and trench—at Badajoz, at Ciudad Rodrigo, San Sebastian and Tarifa.

Here, at least, was one noble old Spanish soldier—one true cavalier—whose lively recollection of those great campaigns (which are second to none the world has seen) and whose sense of what his country owed to ours, formed a strong contrast to that cold ingratitude which desecrated the tomb of the Scottish hero of Corunna, and ploughed up the graves of our brave men, who were buried in the little field beneath the ramparts of Tarifa; and for the repose of whose bones our Government had to pay a sum to Spain.

We received from him a letter to the Governor of Gibraltar, stating that our explanations of the affair of the guarda costa had perfectly satisfied him; and on our rising to retire he made us an offer of a cavalry escort as far as San Roque, which lies within a few miles of our garrison; but being aware that we should be obliged to maintain both the horses and the men, and to make them a handsome donation at parting, I declined, saying that we had an idea of returning by San Lucar de Barameda, and would there take the steamer for Gibraltar.

"But remember there is that restless gentleman, Don Fabrique de Urquija," said the general, smiling; "he makes the roads very unsafe, and does not hesitate to commit such outrages as have not been known in the land since Marshal Massena marched through it."

We assured him of our being without fear in the matter; on which he laughed, saying that he knew "los Brittanicos, of old, and that, like our fathers who fought under Wellington, Hill, and Grahame, we also were without fear," and we parted, highly flattered and delighted by our interview with this old Castilian hidalgo.

We lounged long in the Alameda, where the notice our uniform attracted was rather an annoyance. After dining at the hotel and making the most of our costume that our light marching order would admit, we appeared at the door of Donna Dominga's residence in the Calle del Alcazar, just as the cathedral clock struck eight; for the Spaniards are too well bred to esteem any one the more for being late at a conversazione, for such is a tertulia in fact and in effect.

A number of sedans, borne by servants in livery, were standing about the steps of the mansion; and the links and torches flared on the coats of arms that decorated the panels and the collars of Santiago and Calatrava which surrounded them. Various long-visaged and spindle-shanked representatives of the pure did blood of los Cuatros Reinos, untainted by the stain of Moor, or Jew, or heretic, were stalking through the vestibule with due gravity and grandeur.

We were ushered forward by one servant, and were announced by another on entering the saloon, where our old friend Donna Dominga sat with fan and snuff-box in hand receiving her guests; and as her son had prepared her for our visit, she was in a prodigious flutter, with her fat round face forming the apex of a pyramid of black satin and black Cadiz lace; for her veil, which was of the finest texture, fell over all her person.

By her side sat the pretty Paulina on a rich low tabourette, gracefully as a Spanish lady sits at mass, or a Moorish maiden on her little carpet, for it is from their Arabian conquerors that the low seats of the Spanish dames are borrowed.

The major, who wore the blue uniform and massive silver epaulettes of "the noble Regiment of St. Anthony," and who had the order of St. John of Portugal on his breast, hurried forward to meet and to present us. Then the younger donna blushed crimson, while the elder wished very much to do so too, and dropping her eyelids, fanned herself, and affected to be much agitated. We bowed very low and then stepped back, as it is not the custom in Spain to shake hands. After a few of those complimentary remarks and those commonplaces, which are customary in every country, we should have withdrawn a little to make way for other tertulianos, had not Donna Dominga especially invited us to remain beside her; and while the presentation continued, and all that were noble (being rich or beautiful went for nought in Seville) appeared in succession, and while caballeros and grave and solemn hidalgos, with the red cross of Calatrava, and the little sword of San Jago dangling at their button-holes, advanced slowly, and with a faint smile and courtly bow laid a hand on their heart and lisped the usual and invariable "A los pies de usted, señoras" (I am at your feet, ladies), and then retired; I was chatting gaily with Paulina, who had now become more assured, and who overwhelmed me with a thousand inquiries about Gibraltar and her friends. Meantime that rogue Jack Slingsby poured into her mother's ear pretended messages from MacLeechy, our doctor—messages so tender and so pitiful that the old lady relented and forgave him being married, saying it was "his misfortune, not his fault, poor man;" Jack asserted his belief that the doctor was quite of her opinion; and then the bulbous-shaped fair one made a vigorous use of her fan and snuff-box, as she conjured up the image of the "gay deceiver."

The saloon was a large apartment; the floor was of polished oak, and was varnished until it shone like glass; the ceiling was of cedar, and divided into deep, dark panels; the walls were painted white, and were hung with several dusky pictures, principally of religious subjects; one of these was by Roelas; another by Murillo, and both had narrowly escaped abstraction by the French, during the War of Independence, for Messrs. Soult, Suchet, and Co., made everything march over the Pyrenees that was neither too hot nor too heavy.

Our garrison evening parties in Gibraltar had shown Donna Dominga that considerable improvements might be made upon the solemn gravity of the Spanish tertulia; thus the company were pressed to stay longer than usual in honour of us; we had a few airs on the piano—a very antique instrument, said to have been found among Joseph's baggage at Vittoria, and in no way calculated to give full effect to the compositions of Donizetti, Verdi, or Orsini, which Paulina and her companions attempted to give us; but then they had their guitars, and the lively songs of old Spain, and legendary ballads of the brave Avalos of the Ronda, which if destitute of science, had at least the merit of being full of music and melody.

Every sound was hushed as Paulina sang the song which was wont to turn the heads of half Her Majesty's garrison.

"Since for kissing thee, Minguillo,
    Mother's ever scolding me;
Give me swiftly back, O dear one,
    Give the kiss I gave to thee!"

Either by chance, or an irresistible inclination, our eyes met just as she sang these very tender and pointed words, and a soft tinge shot over her pure white cheek. My own heart filled with a tumult of emotion, for the aspect of this noble Spanish girl, as she sat on the low tabourette, in an attitude full of grace, with her high proud head and the long veil of black lace that fell from it over her back and shoulders, was so bewildering, that I felt convinced my peace of mind would require an explanation with her before my bantering mentor and I turned our horses' heads once more towards Gibraltar.

We had now a little waltzing, and a quadrille or two, with plenty of groseille and fleur d'orange.

I had a thousand things to tell Paulina; but when she was the centre of almost every eye in the room, it was no easy matter to be tender; besides, whenever I looked round, the comical eye of Jack Slingsby, with a glass stuck in it, was sure to meet mine; for whatever he was about, in the waltz, the quadrille, in a quiet two-handed flirtation (which, by the way, made the old hidalgos of Seville, who are not wont to tolerate such things, shrug their shoulders and elevate their eyebrows) in the middle of a tender speech, when handing fleur d'orange, restoring a fallen fan, or reclasping a bracelet, he seemed to watch all my proceedings with a species of amused interest—so that nothing passed between Paulina and me but the merest commonplaces.

"The moment so ardently wished for has arrived at last," thought I; "she is beside me, and I have not one word of interest for her."

"And you leave Seville to-morrow?" said she, to break an awkward pause.

"No, señora, in two days."

"A short visit—there are so many things to see here. There is the great tower of Cabildo with its enchanted weathercock, a Pallas with a standard which always indicates the quarter from which an enemy is approaching Seville."

"Ah—yes; I remember in the adventure of Don Quixotte with the Knight of the Wood, the latter boasts, that among other deeds done in honour of his mistress, he 'had challenged the famous fighting giantess, La Giralda of Seville, who is strong and undaunted as one who is made of brass.'"

"And who without changing place is the most inconstant woman in the world. Oh, Don Quixotte, he is charming! And then in Seville we have the letters of Francisco Pizzaro, of Columbus and the valiant Hernan Cortes; and more than all, we have the cathedral with its Puerta de Perdon, which was the work of a Moorish necromancer, and was all built by a spell between the night and morning. In two days you can never see all these things."

"Your own presence, Donna Paulina, is more than enough to detain me here for ever."

"Then why go so soon?" she asked, with her pretty Spanish lisp, while her long lashes drooped.

"Go I must, señora, for, being a soldier, I have nothing to urge; but——"

"But what?"

"The stern necessity of obedience."

"Ay de mi!" said she, gazing fully and honestly at me; "I am so sorry to hear all this."

"I am full of gratitude to hear you say so, señora; but there is no remedy."

"Señor," said she, smiling, "para todo hay remedio sino para la muerte."

"True, there is a remedy for everything but death, it is a good old Spanish proverb," said I; "but is not absence from those we love but a living death? so when I am far from Seville I shall have but the memory of one most beautiful face, and one bright happy night."

"Take this rose," said she, disengaging one from her bouquet; "it will be a memento, though a small one."

"Thanks, señora; but the rose will wither and fade."

"So will the memory of the beautiful face and the one happy night," said she, with a winning smile.

"Never, never Paulina—you are so charming—so gentle and so good, that——"

"Hush, Dios Mio! the people are observing us, and—but ave Maria purissima! what is the matter with my mother?"

During this brief conversation, the servant Pedrillo had delivered a note to Donna Dominga, who, on hurriedly glancing at its contents, uttered a faint cry and fell upon the sofa, where all the ladies crowded in an excited manner round her. Don Joaquim snatched up the letter and read it with flaming eyes.

"What, in Heaven's name, is the matter?" I asked, pressing forward.

"A letter has come from the captain of the guarda costa, stating that the son of Donna Dominga, his lieutenant, had been killed by a shot from the garrison of Gibraltar," said Slingsby, in a rapid whisper. "The absence of the captain general at Jaen prevented the Sevillanos from learning that the person slain was a townsman. I find we are in a mess here, and think we had better be off, my boy."

Though Spain had a post-office in those days when James III. of Scotland was fighting the battles of the people against his traitorous nobility, and when the brutal Henry of England was murdering his wives and burning Catholics and Protestants together at Smithfield, she has so far receded in the arts of peace that this unfortunate letter had been all these many weeks in finding its way from the sea port of Malaga to Seville.

Don Joaquim now said something to Paulina, who turned upon us with eyes full of grief and dismay.

"'T is my brother Hernan you have slain," she exclaimed, in tones that went through me like a sword; "O madre mia, madre mia! they have murdered our dear, dear Hernan!" and she threw herself beside her mother.

"Yes, señores," said Don Joaquim, folding up the letter with an air of sombre ferocity; "her accusation is right, you have heard her; 't is my brother Don Hernan who was killed by your accursed shot from the mole fort of Gibraltar,—Hernan, lieutenant of the guarda costa, and this letter is from his captain, detailing the circumstances of that outrage on the Spanish flag—an outrage of which I have heard so much since I left Portugal; but which I little thought—O Dios Mio! how little indeed, that it would bring such sorrow to my own house, and to hearts to me so dear. My poor boy brother, Hernan! So, señores, you it is, who were the perpetrators of this foul act? Fit men you were, and proper too, to detail it to our blockhead of a captain general, who was worshipping an old rag at Jaen, when he should have been seeking vengeance at Madrid. But look ye, señores, I'll have it, sure and deep, and as certainly as there is a saint in heaven, sure as my name is Joaquim de Lucena of the regiment of Lagos!"

"Mueran los gabachos—death to the miscreants!" growled a number of voices, and I laid a hand on my sword. It was a natural impulse.

The ladies clustered like a brood of terrified doves round Donna Dominga and her daughter; the gentlemen drew round her son; Slingsby and I were left together in the middle of the large saloon.

"A pleasant predicament this!" said Jack, shrugging his shoulders: "Ramble, I think we had better retire."

"To remain is useless, for these people are alike past listening to explanation or apology," I replied; and with an emotion of mortification and sorrow, which the reader may easily imagine, we took up our swords, made a profound bow to this ungracious company (none of whom responded), and quitted the house.

"Awful business this," said Jack, "is it not, Dick Ramble?—speak—have you lost your tongue?"

"A strange combination of unfortunate circumstances! To find ourselves the honoured guests of the very woman whose son we slew! In what light will Paulina view us, and Don Joaquim too?"

"As an officer he ought to be aware that we did but our duty," urged poor Jack, who felt himself the most guilty party; "but I did not half like the expression of his eyes as we left the saloon."

"How?"

"I read in them more of hatred and malice, than of horror for the event, or natural grief for his brother's fate."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it!"

"Well, the man is a Spaniard."

"And being so, will not let us off easily."

"We shall have a message from him in the morning, challenging us both to fight, you think?" said I.

"Not at all; your Spaniards don't fight duels; he will lay some desperate snare for us between this and San Roque; so, depend upon it, the sooner we make ourselves scarce in Seville the better. But here is the hotel—for Heaven's sake let us have some iced champagne, for this horrid business has made me as thirsty as if I had crossed a whole county in the hottest hunting season."

I must own that though I was pretty well assured of the truth of Jack's surmises and suspicions, fear for my own safety was quite a secondary emotion to my sincere sorrow for the bereavement we had occasioned to poor old Donna Dominga and the lively Paulina. As for that stormy fellow Joaquim, I felt no compunction for him in the least; his grief was too noisy, and his sudden hostility too deep to leave much room for natural sorrow; and so, while surmising, considering, revolving, and talking the matter threadbare, we finished several bottles of champagne; through the medium of these we easily came to the conclusion that we were the most injured parties; that we had been grossly insulted somehow, over night—that the usual satisfaction was necessary; and then we retired to bed in a state of just and proper indignation at the malevolent threats of Don Joaquim and his friends, to whom the affair formed a notable subject for discussion at those morning meetings, which are so dearly prized by the Spaniards, who then debate everything from a ballet girl's ancle to a rising in Catalonia; and for these gossips, the place of rendezvous in Seville is the Plaza de San Domingo.

CHAPTER X.

DON FABRIQUE.

We were awake betimes in the morning, and breakfasted early, in the true Spanish style, on good stiff chocolate with fried eggs, purple wine, and snow-white bread; but no hostile message came from Don Joaquim. The hours stole on, and the sunlit streets threw the shadows of their picturesque façades against each other. The events of the last night, and their probable consequences, had given us a decided distaste for prowling about the streets of Seville. We were both somewhat thoughtful, and said little, or conferred only on the nearest route by which we could reach Gibraltar, in coming from which, we had made somewhat of a détour; and Jack hinted that we should probably have some more brawls with alcaldes, rows at posadas, skirmishes with banditos, and other pleasant adventures, before we reported ourselves "as just arrived" at head quarters.

"A letter for El Señor Capitano Don Ricardo," said the waiter, approaching.

"A letter for you, Dick," said Slingsby.

"So it has come at last," said I, breaking the seal.

"Will it be an affair of knives or pistols?"

"Hush!" said I, as the waiter retired.

"Slugs in a saw-pit, and all that sort of thing—a triangular duel, eh? But an officer should have brought it."

"Yes, had it been that for which you seem so very anxious."

"Anxious! not I, believe me."

"Well, this is from a lady."

"The deuce—you quite interest me. I can perceive that it is penned on pink paper, a little flourished, but without signature. It is from Paulina, poor girl! I can imagine her writing it, and as Byron says—

"'How tremulously gentle, her small hand—'"

"How can you run on thus?" I asked, imploringly. "Fie upon you, Jack, after all the misery we have wrought to these poor people."

"Well, perhaps you are right and I am wrong. I beg pardon; but the letter—what is it about?"

"Only the safety of our lives."

"Our lives—indeed—how so?"

"Read it."

The note ran thus:—

"SENOR DON RICARDO.

"In the name of the Blessed Mother of God, I implore you and your friend to leave Seville on receipt of this, and to take the nearest road for San Lucar de Barameda, where you can reach a steamer, which sails direct for Gibraltar. Don Joaquim vows to have a terrible revenge for the death of our dear brother Hernan; and, last night, was seen in conference with Fabrique de Urquija on the old Alameda. The road you came will be beset—his band are, doubtless, now in hire to waylay you. El santo de los Santos, forgive you the misery you have caused to those who never wronged you, and may it deliver you from the snares of death that lie in your homeward path."

"More melodramatic than pleasant," said Jack.

"It is from Paulina, no doubt.—how considerate!"

"Kind and gentle too," added Jack. "Well, all things duly considered, I think we should take her advice—mount, and be off."

"Poor—poor Paulina!"

"Deuce take it, Dick, don't be faint-hearted. 'T will be all one when the route comes for the Crimea, and sell or sail is the word."

"Not among "Ours," I hope."

"The San Lucar road be it."

"Then the sooner we leave the better, for we have much to lose and nothing to gain by lingering here."

"For there is neither law, justice, nor honour among these Spaniards," said Slingsby, making a smart application to the bell-rope.

"What! you say so in the face of this charming letter?"

"Charming, indeed, to be told that a captain of robbers—a picturesque ruffian in a steeple-crowned hat and red garters, has been bribed to cut your throat—to 'do' for you in the flower of your youth for a hundred pistoles."

The letter raised a glow of sad, of kind, and regretful emotions within me; but I stifled them all, and, calling for the bill, settled with the landlord in person.

"What manner of magistrates have you here in Seville?" asked the unwary Jack.

"How, señor?"

"When they permit thieves to prowl about your streets at night."

"Thieves, señor—Ave Maria!"

"Yes, thieves, señor patron. Fabrique de Urquija was on the old Alameda last night with a well-known bravo from Portugal."

"Don Fabrique," reiterated our host, aghast at the name; "ah, he is too great a man to be easily arrested, señor."