"Preciosa. Is this a dream? O, if it be a dream,
Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!
Repeat thy story! say I'm not deceived!
Say that I do not dream! I am awake;
This is the gipsy camp; and this Victorian."
The Spanish Student.
To address or to consult his old and deaf companion would have been worse than useless, so Quentin angrily sat down to reflect, and, unfortunately, in sitting down, did so on a prickly pear. Now, there are more pleasant sensations in the world than to sit upon such an esculent, or a Scots thistle (when one is inclined to ponder and to "chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancy"), with their bristling stamens, especially if one wears the stockingweb regimental pantaloons then worn; so Quentin sprang up, and issuing from the thicket, perceived with great satisfaction, that though the rain was then falling, the clouds were rising and the wind abating; in fact that the storm, which had most probably concealed their flight from the French, was gradually passing away; but whether or not, one fact was evident—that the donna and he must pass the night in the thicket.
It was fortunate that he had rendered the flight of their cattle of less consequence, by previously securing the bota of wine and the bag of provisions, and also that he had ridden with his pistols at his girdle, and not in holsters.
As the light increased a little when the clouds dispersed, he perceived a ruined arch, the use or origin of which it would be difficult to determine. It seemed to be a portion of a small aqueduct or vault, Roman, Gothic, or Moorish perhaps—anything but Spanish. It stood amid the great old trees of the chestnut grove, and was half hidden by the luxuriant grass, the gorgeous wild flowers, and odoriferous creepers. It was about six feet in height, but several more in depth, and heaps of fallen masonry, covered with moss and lavender-flowers, enclosed it on one side.
Quentin examined the ruin, and finding it strewed with dry and withered leaves, blown thither by the wind, he led in his trembling companion, who seated herself near him, and with muttered thanks drank a mouthful of wine from the bota, while he drew forth the contents of the alforja, to wit, a huge loaf of fine white bread, a boiled fowl, and a red sausage, that, of course, smelt villanously of garlic. It was in vain, however, that he pressed Donna Ximena to partake of the guerillas' good cheer. The old lady had evidently no objection to a comforting drop of the generous Valdepenas, but when he offered her food she only buried her head in her veil and rocked herself to-and-fro, as if overcome by weariness or alarm.
Placing his mouth near her ear, Quentin endeavoured, by roaring as if he were in a gale of wind at sea, to discover if she knew whereabouts they were—whether near Valencia de Alcantara or Albuquerque; whether near Marvao or San Vincente; whether on the Spanish or Portuguese side of the frontier; but she only shook her head, and made signs of the cross, as the twilight deepened.
Quentin thought that Don Baltasar had certainly selected his guide, as the Dean of St. Patrick counselled all housemaids should be, for their years and lack of personal charms.
"By Jove—the plot thickens!" said he, as he tugged away at a drumstick of the boiled galina and consoled himself with a hearty pull at the bota, while his companion laid her old muffled head on a heap of leaves, and appeared to fall sound asleep; at least Quentin never cared to enquire whether she was so or not.
There were moments when he seriously considered whether he was not justified in marching off quietly without beat of drum, and leaving this venerable bore to shift for herself, while he made the best of his way to Portalegre, as he had left it, a-foot; but there seemed to be something so ungallant and ungenerous in leaving an elderly female (not that the fact of her being the maternal parent of Padre Trevino enhanced her value) alone, in such a place and at night too, that he resolved to wait till morning dawned, and then he would see what a night might bring forth; and this resolution he formed all the more readily that the rain was still pouring in a ceaseless torrent.
Hour after hour passed in silence, no sound coming to his ear save the monotonous patter of the rain falling on the brown autumnal leaves; to Quentin it proved alike a weary and dreary time, until the shower began to abate, and for the first time in his life he heard a nightingale pouring its plaintive and varying notes upon the air.
Quentin placed their provender and his pistols in a dry place, gathered a heap of leaves for a pillow, and coiling himself up at the other end of the ruin, i.e., as far away as possible from old Donna Ximena, he followed her example and courted sleep.
With the first blink of the day he started from his nest of leaves. Grey dawn was stealing between the great rough stems of the chestnut wood. The rain and the wind were over; the vapours of the night had dispersed, and no trace remained of the past storm save the scathed and thunder-riven tree, the ruins of which were scattered around its root.
The green slopes of the distant hills were visible, dotted by the drenched merino sheep, thousands of which are annually driven into Estremadura, to fatten on the rich wild grass of its pastures. In the distance, and darkly defined against the increasing pink and violet tints of the sky, were two windmills, quaint and old, like those which the Knight of La Mancha assailed; their wheels were broken, and the fans hung motionless and in tatters.
A herd of wild swine rushed through the grove, snorting and grunting in their headlong career, but the Donna Trevino still slept soundly, if Quentin might judge by her breathing, which was low and regular. After stepping forth to reconnoitre, and finding the whole vicinity of the thicket silent, and no appearance of either friend or foe on the roads in any direction, he deemed this the wisest and safest time to set forth, and returned to wake his companion, whom he really began to wish—we shall not say where, or with whom—but safe at least with her son, the Padre Trevino.
On approaching he perceived that the loose and ample garment of alternate white and purple stripes in which she was enveloped, was partly deranged, and the thick black lace veil which covered her head was open in front, for now one half of it floated over her right shoulder. Then, on drawing nearer, how great was his astonishment to behold in the sleeper, not the wrinkled and withered visage of the deaf old woman, whom all yesterday and all last night he supposed to be his bore and companion, whom he had left to shift for herself when the French appeared, and from whom he had crept as far away as possible in the singular den they tenanted—not the faded visage, we say, of Donna Ximena, but the pale and delicately cut features, the wondrously long black eyelashes, and the lovely little face of Donna Isidora!
The red pouting lips were parted, and the pearly teeth below were visible, imparting to her expression a charming air of child-like innocence and repose. Ungloved now, one white and slender hand, grasping her gathered veil, was pressed upon her bosom; her left cheek reposed upon her outstretched arm, and the partial disarrangement of her picturesque costume, as she had turned in her sleep, left visible rather more than her short Spanish skirts usually revealed of two remarkably pretty ankles, cased in their tight scarlet stockings.
The hardships to which her brother's recent guerilla life had subjected her, evidently enabled the adventurous girl to "rough it," as soldiers say; thus she still slept soundly, while Quentin, half kneeling down, surveyed with wonder, perplexity, and pleasure, the beauties thus suddenly revealed by the open veil.
Touching her hand, he awoke her.
She started up with an exclamation of alarm, and her hand seemed instinctively to feel for the bodkin which confined her hair. Aware that she was discovered now, she assumed a sitting posture, threw back her thick veil, and a singular expression, half angry and half droll, came into her dark eyes, as she said—
"You have been looking at me as I slept! Was it proper to penetrate my disguise, senor?"
"Pardon me, senora; I did not, indeed; I came but to wake you, and found your veil open; could I refrain from looking—from admiring?"
"And you have discovered me——"
"To be young and beautiful——"
"When you thought me old and hideous—is it not so?" she asked, laughing.
"I confess it, and with pleasure, senora. This is very enchanting—but what romance is it—what absurd comedy is this you are acting?"
"Absurd?"
"Pardon me again; but though it is a game or drama that charms me very much, it is not without peril.'"
"To whom?"
"To both—perhaps most of all to you, senora."
She replied only by a haughty smile, so Quentin continued—
"Now we shall make our way together delightfully to Portalegre, and there can be no more deafness; or can it be that you and Donna Ximena changed places here in the night? Oh, tell me what does all this mean?"
"I shall tell you, senor," said the now blushing girl; "it means simply that my brother was most anxious that I, and not Donna Ximena, should reach the St. Engracia convent, as a place of permanent safety till these wars and tumults are over. He also wished to supply you with a guide to Portalegre, where, but for the loss of our horses, we should have been last night. Thus my brother——"
"Deemed that as old Donna Ximena you would be safer with me than in your own character?"
"Exactly," she replied, laughing; "we thought there would be little chance of your attentions annoying her."
"Do you imagine that when the French appeared I would have turned my horse's head and left you without thought or ceremony, as I left her—she whom I considered an old, deaf bore and encumbrance? You have acted well your part, senora. How you made me roar and shout, as if I was commanding a whole brigade!"
"And now, senor, that you know I am not Donna Ximena, will you respect me the less?"
"On the contrary, I shall respect you a great deal more," said Quentin with enthusiasm, as he took her hand in his; but she withdrew it as if to adjust her veil.
"Then, am I to understand that in your country, youth is more honourable than age?"
"Nay, it is not, but youth is more pleasing, certainly."
"You have been most kind to me, senor."
"Kind, senora?" Quentin thought she was quizzing him.
"Yes; I cannot forget how, even as old Ximena, you lifted me from my mule, conveyed me in here, made a couch and pillow for me, and so forth. Beso usted la mano, caballero (I kiss your hand, sir)," she added, taking his hand in hers.
"Oh, Donna Isidora, I cannot permit you to do this—unless——"
"Do you not know the customs of Castile? Well, unless what?"
"You permit me to kiss yours."
"How simple! there, senor," she added, presenting a very lovely little hand, which he pressed to his lips.
"Your cheek now—ah, you will permit me?" urged Quentin, becoming a little bewildered by the whole situation, and by the clear dark eyes that looked so softly into his.
"Do so, senor."
Quentin was promptly pressing forward, when the point of a very unpleasant looking little stiletto met his cheek!
"Senora," he exclaimed, "what do you mean?"
"That I shall stab you to the heart if you molest me—that is all!" said she, as a gleam came into her dark eyes that vividly reminded Quentin of Baltasar.
"So, so, senora," said Quentin, with an air of pique, "you are certainly able to take care of yourself."
"I live in times when it is necessary I should be so," was the dry retort.
Quentin surveyed her with growing interest, for her beauty was very remarkable in its delicacy and darkness. She had a short crimson upper lip, that seemed to quiver with every passing thought, for she was an impressionable, enthusiastic, and high-spirited girl. After a pause,
"Now that you have done admiring me, I suppose," said she, "you will kindly say what we are to do?"
"How?"
"We cannot remain here among the leaves, like a couple of gitanos, or two rooks in search of a nest."
"We shall continue our journey to Portalegre, with your permission, senora; and now that you have recovered your hearing, and that I am not obliged to bellow like a madman, you will perhaps, if in your power, tell me where we are?"
Donna Isidora laughed and presented her hand; Quentin assisted her to rise, and on issuing from the ruined arch, she looked about her for some time.
"By those two windmills," said she, "I know that we are not far from Salorino."
"A town, senora?"
"Yes; it lies at the base of yonder lofty mountain, on the left bank of the river Salor."
"Is it large?"
"A considerable place for manufactures. This purple and white striped woollen stuff is made there; but the town must be avoided, as it is occupied by a troop of Polish Lancers."
"Then did we ride the wrong way in the rain last night?"
"Yes; we are still fully thirty miles from Portalegre."
"Thirty miles yet, senora!"
"Yes, and Valencia de Alcantara, where the French Light Cavalry are, lies exactly midway, on the main road, between us and it."
Quentin's heart sunk at this information.
"You are certain of all this, senora?" said he, laying his hand lightly on her arm.
"Quite, senor."
"We cannot—you, at least, cannot—proceed thirty miles on foot; so what in heaven's name shall we do?" said Quentin in great perplexity.
"The Conde de Maciera, who serves in my brother's band of guerillas as captain of a hundred lancers, has a villa at the foot of yonder hill near the Salor; I remember that the wildest bull we ever had in the arena at Salamanca came from thence. The place is scarcely two miles distant from this, and could we but reach it, doubtless some of his domestics might assist us."
"The idea is excellent; let us set out at once!"
"Be advised by me, senor, and take some breakfast first," said the Spanish girl, laughing; "it is a custom we guerillas have, always to eat when provisions can be had, lest we halt where there are none."
Quentin at once assented, and opening the alforja produced the fowl and other edibles, on which they made a slight repast before setting forth.
Seating herself within the ruined arch, her head reclined upon her left hand, Isidora displayed to perfection a lovely rounded arm, and a pair of taper ankles and little feet, towards which Quentin's eyes wandered from time to time.
"You look at me very earnestly, senora," said he, while his cheek reddened and his heart fluttered on finding the dark searching eyes of the young donna fixed on him more than once.
"There is, I can see, a sad expression in your eyes, senor."
"Do you think so?" asked Quentin, smiling.
"Yes."
"But how, or why do you suppose so?"
"I don't know; I perceive that you are a mere boy (muchacho), and yet—and yet——"
"What, senora?"
"Ave Maria purissima! I can't say—there is something that speaks to me of thought, reflection, care beyond your years."
"It may well be so, dear senora; I have never known a relative in the world; I have been an orphan from infancy, and——"
"And now," said she, presenting him with her hand, "you are a soldier who comes to fight for Spain!"
"And for you, too, senora," he added, as he touched her fingers with his lips, and with a devotion that somewhat surprised himself. "But are you afraid of me, as old Donna Ximena was?"
"No—why do you think I am?"
"You sign the cross so often."
"Because, senor—excuse me, but the morning air is excessively chilly here, and I yawn frequently."
"And you do so?——"
"For fear Satanas should dart down my throat unseen and unfelt. It is a belief—superstition you may deem it—that we have in Castile; though you, perhaps, who have, unfortunately, been educated among heretics, may know neither the dread nor the holy sign. I know that it is not used in your country, senor—because I can read."
"I should think so," said Quentin, amused by her simplicity; "is not every lady educated?"
"No—not in Spain."
"Why?"
"Lest, if handsome, they should write to their lovers."
"And yet, senora, they had the rashness to teach you."
"Do you mean that I am handsome, or that I must have lovers?"
"I mean both—that being the first of necessity leads to your possessing the last."
"My poor father, the good old professor, who was so barbarously slain by the French, was careful to teach me many things, though our female literary accomplishments are usually confined to our prayers and rehearsing legends of the saints, songs of the Cid Rodrigo, or by Lope de la Vega. In England I believe you have women who could lead the Junta or shine in the Cortes itself; but what matters their education, when it only serves to confirm their heresies? And now, senor, place the bota in the alforja, and sling that over your shoulder; let us go, and I shall be your guide to Villa de Maciera."