The Victorian Villains Megapack (42 page)

But here another difficulty arose. He was in good, even robust, health; and the doctor, having overhauled him twice recently, could hardly be imposed upon by any train of symptoms, be they never so harrowing in the recital.

Suddenly he recalled a statement from one of those true stories of prison life, always written by falsely-accused men—the number of innocent people who get sent to prison is really appalling!

It was on the extent to which soap-pills have been made to serve the purpose of the malingerer. Now the minute slab upon his shelf had always been repellent in external application, but for inward consumption—he hurriedly averted his gaze! But this was no time for fastidiousness; so, choosing the moment just after one of the periodical inspections of the warder, he hurriedly picked a corner from the stodgy cube, and, rolling it into a bolus, swallowed it with the help of repeated gulps of water. As a natural consequence, his appetite was not increased; and when supper arrived later on he contented himself with just sipping the tea, ignoring the brown loaf.

Sleep was long in coming to him that night; he knew that he was entering upon an almost hopeless enterprise, and his natural anxiety but enhanced the dyspeptic results of the strong alkali. Toward morning he dropped off; but when the bell rang at six there was little need for him to allege any symptoms of the malaise which was obvious in his pallor and his languid disinclination to rise.

“Ye’d better let me putt yer name down for the docthor, Stammers,” was the not unkindly observation of the Irish warder as he collected. Pringle merely acquiesced with a nod, and when the chapel bell rang his cell door remained unopened.

“Worrying about anything?” suggested the doctor, as he entered the cell about an hour afterwards.

“Yes, I do feel rather depressed,” the patient admitted.

A truthful narrative of the soap disease, amply corroborated by the medical examination, had the utmost effect which Pringle had dared to hope; and when, shortly after the doctor’s visit, he was called out of the cell and bidden to leave his badge behind he was conscious of an exaltation of spirits giving an elasticity to his step which he was careful to conceal.

Along the passage, through a big oaken door, and then by a flight of steps they reached the paved courtyard. Right ahead of them the massive nail-studded gates were just visible through the inner ones which had clanged so dismally in Pringle’s ears just three nights back.

“Fair truth, mate, ’ave I got the ’orrors. Tell us strite, d’yer see ’em?”

In a whisper another and tremulous candidate for “the farm” pointed to the images of a pair of heraldic griffins which guarded the door; the sweat stood in great drops upon his face as he regarded the emblems of civic authority, and Pringle endeavoured to assure him of their reality until checked by a stern “Silence there!”

“Turn to the left,” commanded the warder, who walked in the rear as with a flock of sheep.

From some distant part of the prison a jumbled score of men and women were trooping toward the gate. They were the friends of prisoners returning to the outside world after the brief daily visit allowed by the regulations, and as their paths converged towards the centre of the yard the free and the captive examined one another with equal interest.

“Ough!”… “Pore feller!”… “’Old ’im up!”… “Git some water, do!”

The tremulous man had fallen to the ground with bloated, frothing features, his limbs wrenching and jerking convulsively. For a moment the two groups were intermingled, and then a little knot of four detached itself and staggered across the yard. A visitor, rushing from his place, had compassionately lifted the sufferer from the ground, and, with the warder and two assisting prisoners, disappeared through the hospital entrance.

In surly haste the visitors were again marshalled, and a warder beckoned Pringle to a place among them For a brief second he hesitated. Surely the mistake would be at once discovered. Should he risk the forlorn chance? Was there time? He looked over to the hospital, but the Samaritan had not reappeared.

“Come on, will yer? Don’t stand gaping there!” snarled the warder.

The head of the procession had already reached the inner gate; Pringle ran towards it, and was the last to enter the vestibule.
Crash!
He was on the right side of the iron gate when it closed this time.

“How many?” bawled the warder in the yard.

Deliberately the man counted them, and Pringle palpitated like a steam-hammer. Would he never finish? What a swathe of red-tape! At last! The wicket opened, another second—No, a woman squeezed in front of him; he must not seem too eager. Now! He gave a sob of relief.

In the approach a man holding a bundle of documents was discharging a cab. Pringle was inside it with a bound.

“Law Courts!” he gasped through the trap. “Half a sovereign if you do it quickly!”

A whistle blew shrilly as they passed the carriage gates.
Swish—swish!
went the whip. How the cab rocked! There was a shout behind. The policeman on point duty walked over from the opposite corner, but as the excited warders met him half-way across the road, the cab was already dwindling in the distance.

HOW DON Q. STOOD AT BAY, by K. and Hesketh Prichard

Winter was breaking. The plains were already gay with flowers, and even in the colder heights of the sierras warm hours at midday reminded Garth Lalor that time was passing; and still Don Q. continued to evade his hints of a desire to return to England. The affair of the death of General Don Basilio remained less of a mystery than Lalor had at first hoped and believed that it might remain. Don Q. was far too keen a man of business to allow the matter to sink into oblivion. He knew that the dealing out of justice in his own peculiar, high-handed manner to so powerful a Carlist conspirator would add brilliancy to his prestige, besides giving irrefrangible proof of the might of his arm.

Lalor, who, you will remember, accompanied the brigand on his eccentric tour of justice, had in consequence been forced to seek refuge once more in the mountains, although the ransom assessed upon him had been remitted by Don Q.

During the last couple of weeks Lalor had noticed that his host of the sierras was plunged in a mood of melancholy, shot and illuminated by flashes of cold rage. Don Q. was not a man to be questioned, and Lalor waited for enlightenment.

One morning as Lalor sat on the terrace sunning himself in the brilliant air of the sierras, Don Q. joined him. Chilly as usual, the Chief, wrapped in his cloak, his sombrero pulled low over his brows, sat for a few moments in silence; then he disengaged one meager hand and pointing downward at the men gathered in groups in the valley below, he told a story in his sibilant voice.

“One of these wolves, these mountain apes,” he began sourly, “has dared to play a little part in imitation of a man—of me, in short—with the grotesque result one would expect from such a travesty. As regards the animal himself, it matters not at all. But he has injured me in a degree so monstrous that his blood alone cannot wash out his crime!”

Lalor looked at the Chief, who had moved and was hanging over the edge of the terrace with the threatening poise of a hawk, scanning the figures beneath, who, manifestly conscious of the deadly gaze, lay motionless in varied and picturesque attitudes round the fires.

“One Pablo has captured and held to ransom a lady of wealthy though not noble family. It came to my knowledge as all events come, and I descended the mountains and caught the fellow red-handed,” the Chief went on. “I returned, bringing both with me. The señorita had been frightened, even maltreated! Psst!” Don Q. emitted a hiss of contempt and malevolence. “Then I considered what I should do.”

Lalor comprehended that last evening’s four good hours of bleak and scowling silence had been spent by the brigand in making up his mind how he might adequately punish the wrongdoer. The outcome of these terrible musings appeared to be a letter that Don Q. now unfolded before the young Englishman.

“What do you think of this, señor?” he asked, “I will read it to you, omitting the compliments of greeting with which you are familiar. I address myself to the Governor of the Prison of Castelleno.”

“What?” ejaculated Lalor, “not the man whose ears—”

Don Q. bowed in his courtly manner.

“Whose ears I regretted being obliged to add to my little museum up here in the mountains—the same, señor.” He began to read, “Don Q. has the honor to send herewith the person of Pablo Gomez, formerly of his band, who has committed the unpardonable indiscretion of holding to ransom on his own responsibility the Señorita Doña Manuela de Lucas. Don Q., as all who acquaint themselves with the great events of the day are aware, has never, during his long, memorable and blameless career, held to ransom a lady. Don Q. trusts that his excellency the Governor of the Prison of Castelleno will, as a man of honor, clear the name of Don Q. of the stigma cast upon it by the horrible action of the scoundrel, Pablo Gomez, and garrotte the fellow on the highest point of the prison roof in the sight of all the world.’ After that the usual greetings of farewell. Does it appear to you, señor, that I have made my meaning perfectly comprehensible?”

“Very much so,” replied Lalor.

The Chief clapped his hands and Robledo, his trusted servant, came running up the path to the cave. Giving orders to bring Pablo and the señorita into his presence, Don Q. resumed,

“You must understand, dear friend, that the rabble of the plains are but too glad to soil the record of a man so much better than themselves. I could naturally cause Pablo to be killed in many excellent ways. I could, for instance, blindfold him and request him to walk ten paces forward—the ninth step including a fall of four hundred feet. This little promenade, when explained beforehand to the person of whom there is question, causes a highly unpleasant quarter-of-an-hour, señor.”

Lalor assured the Chief he could well believe it.

“But in that case they who hate me in the plains would inevitably accuse me of departing from my rule of never causing annoyance to a lady. I have resolved to send Pablo to be dealt with by the law of Spain, so that the true story of the matter may reach my revilers.”

Lalor opened his lips to speak, but after hesitation forbore. The brigand was not one with whose counsels it was well to meddle uninvited. At the moment a group of men, haling with them a reluctant captive, appeared climbing the path. In front of them walked a handsome woman of, perhaps, twenty years of age.

He rose and with conspicuous elegance of movement, swept his hat to the ground. “Señorita, I kiss your feet.”

The girl grew whiter as she gazed at the bald-browed vulture aspect of Don Q. She turned to Lalor and, reading pity in his glance, she begged him in broken words to plead for her.

“There will be no need, señorita,” replied Lalor, in halting Spanish, “Señor Don Q. is your best friend.”

“I beg you, señorita, to accept my most humble apologies for the indignity with which this miscreant has treated you.” The Chief pointed to Pablo, whose face expressed hang-dog terror, “I have written to the Governor of the Prison of Castelleno to deal with him to the utmost severity of the law. While you, lady, shall be conducted with all care and tenderness to your family.”

“You are about to set me free?” cried the girl.

“Doubtless, you have heard many things of me, Doña Manuela,” replied Don Q. sadly. “Have those stories ever included one of cruelty or imprisonment imposed upon a woman?”

“No, no, señor
. You are good, you deprive me of words!” she faltered. “How can I thank you?”

“Very easily, most beautiful flower. Be good enough to make it well known in the plains that, in whatever manner I may deal with men, my bearing toward ladies is above reproach.”

“I will tell them all you have done for me! You saved me!” by a slight gesture she made evident her horror of Pablo. “I thank you with all my heart, señor.”

Don Q. turned to Lalor.

“My friend,” he said softly, “you will go with this lady to the lower pass. May I beg the favor of you? You can reassure her as these rough ones never can.”

Lalor expressed his delight at the commission, and on his return a few hours later to the cave he found Don Q. in unusually good spirits.

“By this time the civil guards have charge of our good Pablo,” he remarked, “Robledo will see him enter the gates of the prison, and in a day or two will bring to us the news of the execution. Perhaps, dear friend, you think I have shown weakness in allowing that rascal to get off so cheaply, considering his crime in causing distress to the señorita, who is indeed as beautiful as rumor declared her to be. But what will you? I, of all persons, cannot afford to lose my hitherto unsullied name.

“A good name is like snow, the faintest stain has power to sully it!” The Chief shook his head with an air of profound conviction; then, changing his tone, “But the matter is now done with. Come, friend, light your pipe, and let us wander among the flowers of memory. The world has its wonderful histories, but few are more full of romance than that of our old Spain. It pleases me at times to reflect that countless generations have dwelt in those fat plains below us, but that until I came here, these higher gorges of the sierra have been desolate, and have seldom echoed to the voices of midget humanity.”

“You have never thought of retiring from the sierras—from your profession?” inquired Lalor.

Don Q., who had been huddled by the fire, sat up. The glancing flames played over him, and never had the contrast between his fragile body and fierce heart been so apparent.

“But, señor, you appear not to comprehend this matter!” he exclaimed, his thin voice taking on the sibilant sound of anger. “Your question is ill-considered. It proves that you have failed to understand the motives which led me to adopt my present profession. In business, perhaps, as in that of the wineseller or the dealer in vegetables, which has as its object the amassing of a competence, one hears of persons retiring. But have you ever heard of a poet, an author, an artist, retiring?”

Lalor hastened to acknowledge that he had not.

“The same rule applies to me,” pursued the Chief haughtily. “When I first came up into the sierras I was already rich. Now I am immensely so. But the excitements of my life and the greatness of my career are as dear to me as ever, and the idea of leaving them is intolerable!

“Also, would it suit with my dignity to sue for a pardon?” he resumed more quietly. “And, having got it, to become a mere politician? A man of my eminence cannot disappear. No, seññor, the feud between the law and myself will never be ended until I am dead. And when the names which today appear notable in the land, are forgotten, men will still speak of Don
Quebrantahuesos
. My fame and my doings have enriched the Spanish language!”

Lalor knew that the strange man who spoke thus, spoke the bare truth. Perhaps his intelligence had become warped by many years of seclusion, but without question the Chief meant all that he said.

“Señor, have you no fear of capture?” Lalor could not withhold the question.

“Ah, no, my dear friend, none,” the thin claw-like fingers were spread to the blaze, “none whatever. I shall die at my own time and in my own fashion.”

The young author sighed. He had grown almost attached to the strange, inhuman outlaw, whose nature, as he now knew, could he touched to such fine issues.

“Why do you sigh?” Don Q. asked in his courteous way.

“Pardon me,” exclaimed the young man impetuously, “but who of us can say that luck will forever be on his side? You are here alone. Those about you are wolves—you have called them so. And wolves will drink one another’s blood. Listen to me, England offers a safe retreat.”

The delicate yellow hand went up to deprecate further urging.

“I thank you, Señor Lalor, for your thoughts of me. I, too, will sigh when the day comes that I can with safety send you to the coast to take ship for your own land. As for me, have no fear. When I die, it will be here. And unborn men will fear to linger alone among the sierra, where the great Chief of the
sequestradores
lies asleep.”

* * * *

To follow the proper sequence of events one must pass down through the Boca de Jabili to the thicket of laurestinus bushes nestling in a romantic gorge among the lower slopes of the sierra. There Robledo left Pablo bound, while he hid himself on an overhanging ledge, where he lay at his ease in the sun and kept watch on events in the ravine below.

The pair of civil guards, whose duty it was to patrol that locality, presently rode into view, and, with much caution, for treachery is not unknown to the corps, approached the spot where a mysterious note had told them they would find the robber, Pablo Gomez. All turned out as the note foretold, and Robledo heard one of the men remark,

“The goatherds say Don Q. is the devil; but he does not lie to us—that is strange.”

The watcher on the ledge above shook his head dubiously. For his own part he believed that the Chief must be playing a very deep game indeed. In due time he came down from his ledge and, by taking leisurely short cuts, kept the civil guards and their prisoner in view to the moment when the gates of the prison closed behind them.

His orders were to await in the town until news of the execution of Pablo should be made public. This news was not long in coming. On the third day reports circulated that Pablo Gomez, the brigand of the sierra, had expiated his many crimes.

Robledo was free to return to the mountains, but one little half-hour must still be snatched to further his own affairs. Perhaps our readers may remember a certain woman with a fine ankle and lustrous eyes, whom Don Luis had once seen from a balcony and admired; also that those dark eyes were lit with lovelight for the dirty, brave, and picturesque Robledo. The thought of them tempted him to delay. It was nightfall when he strolled into a narrow street with his guitar and sang a serenade of passion and farewell under a barred window, until the moonbeams showed him the flashing eyes and teeth of his Isabelilla behind the bars.

At the moment, a sound of hurrying footsteps came down the street, and Robledo and his guitar were at once swallowed up in the darkness of a neighboring doorway.

The two men appeared striding swiftly along the line of shadow, but as they drew near Robledo’s hiding place, a shaft of moonlight through a break in the house-roofs caught the half-muffled profile of one of them. Robledo first started and crossed himself, then with a quick, monkey gesture he put out his hand and touched the cloak of this person as he passed.

This was no apparition, but Pablo Gomez, very much in the flesh.

Robledo comprehended that this meant some serious trouble was brewing against the whole band of the
sequestradores
in the sierra. He himself could not guess what it might be, but he would hasten back to Don Q., who knew everything, who could defeat every stratagem.

Robledo inserted one lean brown hand behind a bar and drew himself up to the window until the comely, powdered face and his own sun-browned one were close together, and a brief whispering ensued. Two minutes later he dropped down, wiped some powder from his lips, and slid away through the shadows. On the second day he was urging his mule at a speed it had never before attained, through the Boca de Jabili.