Part 42

“No fun with you among us, child,” the Cherub said. “The chivalrous bandoleros of the past exist in these days only in story books and ballads. Vivillo is a villainous brute, and a little farther south we’ll find no one on the road who’ll care to speak his name. They’ll call him Señor Coso. As for the Seven Men of Ecija, one says that they’re disbanded long ago, yet there’s a rumour that they still exist; and by the way, Don Ramón, for generations that famous band of seven brigands has had a connection—at least in old wives’ gossip—with the Dukes of Carmona.”

“How’s that?” I inquired, interested; for though I had heard many things about that house, I had not heard the story at which Colonel O’Donnel hinted.

“I wonder you don’t know!” said he. “Why, the tale runs that, more than a hundred years ago, the baby heir of the Carmonas was ailing. If they lost him, the title would go to another branch of the family; but the Duchess had died within a few days of his birth, and no foster-mother could be found to give the child health. Then the Duke caused it to be known far and near that, if any woman could save his boy, she should have a pension for life, enough to keep her in comfort with all her family; and that her daughter and her daughter’s daughter should, if she chose to make the contract, be foster-mothers of future Dukes of Carmona. In answer to this proclamation came a woman of Ecija, the town of the brigands; a Juno of a creature. She nursed the ailing heir back to health, and when the child had become devoted to her, the secret leaked out that she was the married sister of the terrible priest who led the brigand band. But she was not sent away for that reason. Instead, the Duke used his influence successfully to obtain a pardon for her husband, the priest’s brother-in-law, when he was taken red-handed for robbery and murder between Carmona and Seville; and in gratitude for this the man promised that his sons and sons’ sons should be always at the disposal of the ducal house. For the rest, the story goes that more than once in the last century this promise has been exacted and fulfilled in secret.”

“I wouldn’t put it past the present Carmona to have a nest of bandits up his sleeve,” said Dick. “It’s a pretty black sleeve, if some of the things one hears are true. But here’s a road-mender’s cottage. What about halting, and cocking snooks at El Vivillo?”

“It will do very well,” replied the Cherub. “If worst came to worst, we could make a good defence from inside.”

“Honestly, aren’t you pulling our legs about the brigands?” asked Dick, half-scornful and half-amused, as we slowed down.

“No,” said the Cherub. “I’m not joking, if that’s what you mean; for we are on the borders of the bandido country now. It will be years before brigandage is stamped out in Spain; and you must have read of the trouble there’s been lately. Not that I think there’s much chance of an encounter, but it’s well to be prepared; for if a band of men jump at you with carbines to their shoulders, there’s no getting out revolvers.”

“H’m!” muttered Dick. “I suppose you know what you’re talking about; but I wouldn’t mind betting that these people would laugh if we asked, ’What about brigands?’”

“All right; let us ask,” said the Cherub calmly.

By this time the car had stopped close to a tiny white box of a house set a few yards back from the road, with a strip of grass for a lawn; and an old man, evidently an ex-soldier, with a plump wife and a pretty daughter were coming out. We interchanged various compliments; said that, with the kind permission of his honour, the road-mender, we would lunch near his house; were told that the house and everyone as well as everything in it, was at our worship’s disposal; and finally the Cherub murmured a question as to whether any bandidos had been seen lately.

This way and that the old man glanced before answering. Then below his breath replied that, as it happened, four gentlemen of the profession had passed no more than three or four hours ago. They were out of luck, for they had been hunted by the civil guard; and as they were hungry had gone over to the right, there, to see what could be got at the nearest farm. As for this place, it was safe enough, for there was nothing in it which even a brigand would have; and one had to be agreeable to these persons, if they stopped to rest or chat; it was more prudent.

“You see, you would have lost your money if I’d taken your bet, Señor Waring,” said the Cherub.

Never was such a lunch as that we had by the roadside. We all worked at spreading out the contents of the hampers, while the road-mender and his family bustled about, not as inferiors with the hope of a tip, but helping us as friends and hosts.

When we arrived, not a soul was to be seen, save the dwellers in the white box. The only living things beside the trio and ourselves, were the larks that sprang heavenward pouring jewels from throbbing throats, and a few unknown birds of brilliant red and yellow, like drifting flower-petals. But whether these birds carried the news, or whether it blew over the country with the scented wind, certain it is that an audience collected to gaze upon us, as clouds boil up over a clear horizon.

It was not an intrusive crowd that came; neither did they approach offensively near, or stare with vulgar curiosity. It’s component members—three or four handsome young mule-drivers, princely in shabbiness; an elderly tiller of the soil, with the eyes and profile of a half-tamed hawk; an old woman and a young girl madonna-like in their hooded cloaks, as they sat their patient donkeys; and a couple of shy children with the eyes of startled deer—hovered, paused, and ruminated, ready to take flight, like wild creatures of the forest, at a rude look or chaffing word.

But they got no rude looks or chaffing words from us, though we dared not smile too invitingly, lest they misunderstand, and flee from us, offended. We bowed gravely; they gravely bowed in return. Then, following a hurried whisper of advice from the tactful Cherub, we continued our meal. But presently, sandwich in hand, he strolled towards the scattered group, mingled with it, and murmured. What he murmured, we in the car and round it could not hear; but the chill uncertainty on those dark faces brightened into sympathetic amusement.

“He’s telling them about ourselves and the automobile,” chuckled Pilarcita. “Oh, I know him! He’s probably making up nonsense about the car and its workings. In another minute they’ll be his slaves, and friends of us all.”

As she whispered, the plump figure sauntered back. “I think that now it’s safe to offer them a share of our food,” said he, in the manner of one who imparts a delicious secret. “They are dying for some; but they’ll refuse unless we go about it in the right way, for they’re as proud as we are.”

Pilar was not allowed to move, because, in Spain, women are to be worshipped from afar, and must not mingle with strangers. But she handed plates of the dainties supplied by Doña Rosita, to Dick and me, and thus laden we wandered towards our audience.

“Offer something first to the road-mender’s family,” suggested the Cherub, and we obeyed. “Probably you are not hungry,” was his preface. “Why should you be, when you have plenty of food as good as ours, maybe better? But here are things from Madrid. It may happen they are new to you. We shall be pleased if you taste them.”

Then proud, hesitating fingers hesitated no longer, but descended upon thin slices of ham, shredded and sweetened eggs, cheese, and mazapan. Nobody betrayed eagerness, but faces beamed, especially when the road-mender, proud of us as if we had been his relations, went round with our wineskin, cordially bidding every man put it to his lips.

As the company ate and drank, the Cherub circulated among them, and soon was primed with the abbreviated life-story of each person, though he had apparently asked no questions. Somehow, it was the first impulse of the most reserved soul to confide in the Cherub; and when the meal was finished, and no excuse remained for lingering, the wild birds, tamed by kindness, flew away regretfully.

“They’ll all have good words to speak for automobilists after this,” said Pilar.

“Until some ruffian comes tearing along, upsetting their carts and breaking their illusions,” added Dick.

When we were ready to go on, the road-mender’s wife would not be content unless Pilar would have a look at the house, which she took, and came back delighted. “Tiny rooms, but clean as wax,” she reported. “Pictures and crucifixes and Toledo knives on the snow-white walls, and beautiful bright copper in the kitchen. I believe I could be happy to live there—with someone I loved.”

Was the image of Don Cipriano in her mind as she said this? or Dick’s tanned face and whimsical grey eyes? Or did she think only of an existence in the society of her father?

“Beware gutters!” was the road-mender’s last word as we spun away; and we were glad of the warning; for despite careful driving, a few seconds of inattention might have sent us crashing into and over a deep trough across the road, half hidden by thick dust. There were many of these gutters, which might have been put underneath in the form of culverts; but, as the Cherub remarked, since nobody takes the trouble to complain, in Spain, why should anyone bother?

There were broken patches, too, where somebody had begun to build a bridge, and then apparently forgotten all about going on with it; but luckily there were side tracks made by other pioneers, by which, with care, one could skirt the great square hole, and land safely on the other side.