Part 67

Dick and I wandered through the streets, and in the Plaza de la Constitución, where electric lamps and moonlight mingled bleakly, while never-ending cofradìas passed.

A sky of violet was like a veil of silky gauze, and as the moon slid down the steeps of heaven the vast dome paled. One by one the stars went out like spent matches; dawn was on its way. Electric lights flared and died, leaving a pearly dusk more mysterious than any twilight which falls with night.

The crowds had thinned; but silent brotherhoods moved through streets where there was no other sound than the rustling of their feet, the tap of their leaders’ silver batons. So faint was the dawn-dusk, that they were droves of shadows on their way back into night, their candle-lights lost stars. Now and then the clink of a baton brought to some half-shuttered window a face, to be presently joined by other faces, peering down at the dark processions of men and black-robed, penitent women.

Outside the great east door of the cathedral halted a paso, like a huge golden car. Christ was nailed to a cross not yet lifted into place. A Roman soldier, of exaggerated height and sardonic features, stood reading the parchment with the mocking inscription about to be nailed above the thorn-crowned head. His evil mouth was curled in a satirical smile. Two centurions in armour sat their impatient horses, and gave directions for raising the cross. The effect was startling; for in this pale beginning of light, and the atmosphere of tingling exaltation which steeped the town, it was difficult not to believe that the terrible carved figures of wood had life, and that with the eyes of one’s flesh one beheld the world’s great tragedy.

Somehow the impression of horror was but deepened by the fact that the bearers had come out from under the curtains of the paso, to take off the large pads they wore on their heads, to drink water, and smoke cigarettes with the penitents who had rolled up the masks from their pale, damp faces. They might have been comrades of the Roman soldiers, in their obliviousness of that tortured form on the cross.

It was not yet five o’clock when Dick and I plunged into the cool gloom of the cathedral, passing the spot where Carmona had struck at me, and the chapel where I had taken Monica. The stones were slippery as the floor of a ballroom, with wax dropped from innumerable candles, and the air was heavy with the smoke of stale incense.

The searchlight of dawn could scarcely penetrate the black curtains which throughout Holy Week had draped the cathedral; therefore a solitary beam, like a bar of gold, slanted in through one superb window.

The amethysts, emeralds, and rubies of incomparable painted glass transformed the yellow bar into a rainbow which streamed down the length of the majestic aisle and struck full upon a golden altar. Then slowly the jewelled band moved from the gold carvings, the flames dying as it passed. Travelling, still like a searchlight, it found the prostrate forms of sleeping men exhausted by their vigils, snatched out of veiling darkness kneeling women clad in black, and at last rested on the Holy Week monument itself, paled its myriad candles, and made pools of liquid gold on the vestments of priests who had knelt all night in adoration of the Host.

“Say,” said Dick, half whispering, “I don’t gush as a rule; but doesn’t it look like the light of salvation coming to save lost souls?”

Not a hotel in Seville had shut its doors that night of Holy Thursday; not a concièrge had done more than nod and wake out of a broken dream, for there had been an excited coming and going through all the dark hours.

At six o’clock Dick and I were at the fonda, inquiring for Colonel O’Donnel and his daughter. They had come in at two, and were now asleep, it seemed; but had left a note for the señores. In this note we were assured that the friendly verger of last night’s adventure would be lurking in the neighbourhood of Carmona’s house as early as six o’clock, and should we want him we would know where he was to be found.

We took bedrooms, bathed, dressed again, and after hot coffee and rolls decided that is was time to go on guard. To be sure, it was absurdly early; but by this time the Duke’s household might be astir, and we must not risk letting Monica be carried away before we had had a chance to practise the gentle art of housebreaking.

The clocks of Seville were spasmodically telling the hour of seven when we entered the narrow and dusky lane of the Calle de las Dueñas. So fast asleep were the shuttered windows that our mission seemed a fool’s errand; but as we came in sight of the Duke’s closed door the Cherub’s messenger loomed out of the shadows.

Unshaven and haggard, his eyes glittered like black beads in the daylight; and he greeted us excitedly. “Señores,” he began, “I was going to look for you at the hotel. A thing has happened. The Señor Colonel told me I must watch the house of His Grace the Duke, and let you know when you came if anyone had been out or in. Who would think of people starting upon a journey before the day is awake? But so it is. The Duke, whom I have seen in other years, has gone away in an automobile with his honourable mother and two other ladies.”

“You are sure it was he?” I asked, completely taken aback.

“Sure, my señorito. The car was a large grey car. And”—his face grew sly as a squirrel’s—“I can tell you where it is going, if you would like to know.”

“I want to know all you can tell,” I said.

“Well, the grey car arrived a little before half-past six, I should think. In it there was only the young man who drives, dressed in leather. ‘What is going to happen?’ I asked myself. It seemed better to wait and see than run to the hotel to say, ‘there’s an automobile at the door for the Duke,’ and perhaps find it gone, no one could tell where, when I got back. But I do not sleep on my feet. There are always ideas running in my head. I pretended to be strolling past, and stopping for a look at such a fine machine. Perhaps I had matches in my pocket, perhaps not; in any case I asked the young man in leather to give me a light for my cigarette. He did, and it was a natural thing to fall into talk. ‘You make an early start,’ I said. He nodded. ‘Going far?’ ‘To Cadiz to-day, by Jerez.’ That is all, honoured señores; but I tell it for what it is worth. A few minutes later the grand people came out, and the automobile shot away.”

“Did they put on luggage?” I asked.

“All the automobile would hold.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Dick. “Carmona’s thrown sand in our eyes this time. Who’d have supposed he’d turn tail and run away like a coward in the midst of the Holy Week show, with the King still in town?”

“I was a fool not to expect the unexpected,” I said. “If anyone except Colonel O’Donnel’s man had told me I should have been between two minds whether to accept the story or not. But O’Donnel called him a trusty fellow; and he served me well last night. If we wait to verify his story, by the time we find out it’s true the grey car will have got too long a start. I don’t like Carmona’s stealing off. It looks as if there were something up.”

“He showed last night that he was desperate,” said Dick. “I guess we’d better get on the road before much grass grows.”

“You’re the best of friends,” said I. And paying the verger well for his services, we hurried back to the hotel to find Ropes and have the car got ready.

It was still very early, and the Cherub and Pilar had not had many hours beauty sleep; but we could not leave for an indefinite absence without bidding them good-bye; and we were on our way to knock at Colonel O’Donnel’s door when Pilar appeared from the room adjoining.

A moment, and she understood everything. “You’ll follow!” she exclaimed, without waiting to hear my plans.

“And I’ll go with him,” said Dick, looking wistfully at her; for he had not had his answer yet, and who could tell when he would have it now, or what it would be when it came?

“Of course. I knew you would,” Pilar replied. And a light leaped up in her dark eyes. If it meant nothing warmer, it meant approval. “You’ll want to go at once. Oh, I am sorry you’ll miss the fair. You don’t know what a fairyland Seville is, with miles of streets and park roofed in with arches of coloured lights, like jewels; and papa has a tent in the gayest place, where we stay all day, and see our friends, and it’s such fun visiting the booths and side-shows! But maybe next spring you’ll come back for the feria with your bride, Don Ramón; and as for you, Señor Waring—”