"I would my weary course were o'er,
Yet scarce can look for end save this,
To dash to pieces on the shore,
Or founder in the dark abyss.
Fond thoughts, sweet hopes! oh, far more blest
My bosom had it never known
Your presence, since in vain possest,
To lose you while you seemed my own."
RODRIGUEZ LOBO.
He rapidly learned that the court-martial was in the garrison orders to assemble on the 5th instant, and that charges of the most serious nature, involving, perhaps, the terrible penalty of—death, were to be brought against him!
What sudden mystery—what inexplicable horror was this?
On the night he entered Alva he was relieved from the humiliation of an armed escort or guard by the influence of Askerne and Warriston, who both bound themselves by their parole of honour for his appearance whenever required. He was thus at liberty to go about the town, but he cared not to avail himself of it, and remained in his quarters.
The evening of the 4th of December was dull and gloomy. Setting amid saffron haze and shorn of all his beams, the lurid sun looming large and crimson like a wondrous globe, shed a steady light along the waters of the Tormes, a deep stream, which there rolls under a high and ancient bridge, that was afterwards blown up when the British retreated from Burgos.
An old Moorish wall surrounds Alva, which stands on the slope of a hill, and there, above its flat-terraced mansions, rises the great palace of the powerful Dukes of Alva and Berwick, where Ferdinand Alvarez of Toledo, the terror of the Low Countries and the institutor of "the Court of Blood," first saw the light. In an angle of the Moorish rampart, then crumbling in ruins, stands a high round tower of considerable strength and antiquity. Herein was posted the quarter-guard of the 1st Brigade, and in an upper chamber Quentin had his billet, and there he sat alone, after the day's march, left to his own reflections, and these were mournful and gloomy enough.
The aspect of this chamber was little calculated to raise his drooping spirit. Almost destitute of furniture, it was built of massive stone, vaulted, and had three narrow windows, the sides and horse-shoe arches of which were covered with elaborate zigzag Moorish ornaments, arabesques, and uncouth inscriptions, which, though he knew it not, were texts and quotations from the Koran in Arabic. These had probably been gilded and gaudily coloured once, but now were simply coated with mouldy whitewash. One of these windows opened to the hill on the slope of which stands Alva, and afforded a view of its tiled and terraced roofs, all drenched by the recent rain. Another faced the mountains of Leon, and the third showed the narrow gorge through which the red and swollen Tormes lay rolling under the bridge; beyond which, on an eminence, were posted a brigade of field guns and a cavalry picquet; the horses were linked together, and the troops cloaked.
All looked wet and dreary, dull and mournful, and as the December sun went down beyond the dark and purple hills where Salamanca lies, the pipers of the 92nd played "Lochaber no more," their evening retreat, and this air, so sad, so slow and wailing, as they marched along the old Moorish wall, affected Quentin so deeply that he covered his face with his hands and wept.
What would that fine old soldier, courtier, and cavalier, the mirror of old-fashioned courage and honour, Lord Rohallion, say or think, when he heard of his disgrace? What would Lady Winifred—what the old quartermaster, John Girvan? and what would the emotions of Flora Warrender be?
Whether the charges against him were false or true—proved or refuted—she at least would be lost to him for ever, for his career was closed ere it was well begun, and he felt that no other road in life lay open to him. He felt too, instinctively, that Baltasar de Saldos and his sister Donna Isidora were in some manner the secret source of the present evil turn in his fortune; but how or in what fashion he was yet to learn.
The phrase, that the charges involved death or such other punishment as a court-martial might award, was ever before him.
The vagueness of the latter recourse, rather than the terror of the first, cut him to the heart, as all the penalties inflicted by such a court are severe and disgraceful.
Cosmo, he heard, had suggested that he should be handed over to the tender mercies of the Spanish civil authorities; but Sir John Hope insisted that the charges were such as only a military court could take cognizance of; so what on earth were they? Unconscious alike of a mistake or crime, oh, how he longed for the time of trial!
As the darkness of the sombre eve crept on, its gloom was singularly in unison with his own sombre thoughts.
Bright visions had faded away and airy bubbles burst. Chateaux en Espagne were no longer tenable now! How many gorgeous day-dreams of glory and honour, of rank and fame, of position in society attained by worth and merit, were now dissolved in air! His naturally warm, generous, and kindly heart had become seared, callous, and misanthropical. Experience and the world had tried their worst upon him, and thus, for a time, a mere boy in years became a bitter-hearted man, for a day dawn of a glorious ambition seemed to be sinking prematurely into a black and stormy night.
He had seen so many new places and met such a variety of strangers; he had been involved in so many episodes, and had experienced so much by land and sea, and, within a very few months, so much seemed to have happened, that a dreamy dubiety appeared to obscure the past; and thus his former monotonous existence at Rohallion—monotonous as compared with the stir of war—came only at times with clearness, as it were in gleams and flashes of thought and memory. He had nothing tangible about him—not even a lock of Flora's hair—to convince him of past realities, or that he had ever been elsewhere than with the 25th; and yet out of this chaos Flora's face and figure, her eyes and expression of feature, her identity, stood strongly forth. Oh! there was neither obscurity nor indistinctness there!
And now, amid his sorrow, he felt a keen longing to write to her, under cover to John Girvan; but then, he reflected, was such a course honourable in him or deserved by Lord and Lady Rohallion, who hoped to hail her one day as their daughter-in-law? And what mattered her regard for him now—now, with the heavy doom of a court-martial hanging over his head! And yet, if even death were to be his fate, he felt that he would die all the more happily with the knowledge and surety that Flora still loved him.
Deep, deep indeed were his occasional bursts of bitterness at Cosmo; but when he remembered that Cosmo's mother had also been a mother to himself—when all the memory of her love for him, her early kindness, her caresses, her kisses on his infant brow, her increasing tenderness—came rushing back upon him, his heart flew to his head, and Quentin felt that even yet he could almost forgive all the studied wrong and injustice the narrow spirit and furious jealousy of her son now made him suffer. But how were the members of the regiment or of the division to understand all this!
Amid the reverie in which he had been indulging in the dark, the door of the upper chamber of the old tower opened, and two officers, in long regimental cloaks, entered, accompanied by a soldier with a parcel.
"Well, Quentin, old fellow—how goes it?" said Monkton's cheerful voice.
"Cheer up, my boy," added Askerne; "before this time to-morrow we shall have known the worst, and it will be past. We have brought you a bottle of capital wine. It is a present from Ramon Campillo, the jolly muleteer, who came in after the division, and leaves again, for the French lines, I fear."
"A sly dog, who butters his bread on both sides, likely," said Monkton; "my man has brought you a fowl and a loaf, so we shall make a little supper together."
"Here, boy, drink," said Askerne, when the soldier lighted a candle, and they all looked with commiseration upon Quentin's pale cheek and bloodshot eyes; "I insist upon it—you seem ill and weary."
He could perceive that both Askerne and Monkton looked grave, earnest, and anxious, for they knew more of the charges against him than they cared to tell.
"At what hour does the court assemble to-morrow?" he asked.
"Ten, Kennedy."
"Who is the president?"
"Colonel Colquhoun Grant, of the King's Light Dragoons—a hussar corps."
"Where does it meet?" asked Quentin, wearily.
"In one of the rooms of the Alva Palace. Now we cannot stay above ten minutes, Quentin. We are both in orders for the court, which of course is a mixed one, and this visit, if known, might cost us our commissions perhaps; but I know Monkton's servant to be a sure fellow."
"Sure, sir," repeated the soldier, "I should think so! It was to my poor wife and child that Mr. Kennedy—the Lord reward him for it!—gave his blanket on the night we bivouacked at the Escurial," added the man, in a broken voice; "the night I lost them both—never to see them again."
Askerne now asked Quentin many questions concerning his recent wanderings; the answers to some of these he jotted down in his note-book; and he gave much good advice for his guidance on the morrow, adding, with a sigh of annoyance, that he feared there was a deep scheme formed against him, and that, as several outrages had been committed by our retreating troops, it was not improbable that he might be sacrificed to soothe the ruffled feelings of the Spaniards.
"What leads you to think so?" asked Quentin.
"This subpœna, which Monkton's servant picked up in a wine-house and brought us," replied Askerne, opening a letter and reading it, as follows:
"Head-quarters, Alva-de-Tormes,
December 4th.
"SENOR PADRE,—A general court-martial having been appointed to be held here, for the trial of Mr. Quentin Kennedy, serving with the 25th Regiment, upon sundry charges exhibited against him; and the said Mr. Kennedy having represented that your testimony will be very material in the investigation of some of the articles of charge, and having requested that you may be officially summoned as a witness, I am to desire you, and you are hereby required, to give your attendance here to-morrow, at ten o'clock in the morning, at which time it is conceived your evidence will become necessary.
"I have the honour to be, &c., &c.,
"LLOYD CONYERS, Staff Captain,
"Deputy Judge Advocate.
"El Senor Padre Trevino."
"This is some trickery!" exclaimed Quentin; "Trevino is the ruffian of whom I have spoken more than once; the man's doubly my enemy. Well, well! save myself, it matters little to any one what becomes of me," he added bitterly. "I have no kindred—not a relation that I know of in the wide world, and save yourselves, no friends now to regret me or to remember me, save one of whom I cannot speak. It is thus better as it is."
"How?" asked Askerne, who grasped him firmly by the hand.
"For if this false accusation, whatever it is, be proved against me, then none shall blush for my dishonour or sorrow for my fall. Fools may laugh and the wicked may jeer, but the death volley will close up my ears for ever. It may do more," he added, in a broken voice; "it may be the means of revealing to me who was my mother, who my father, with the great secret of eternity after all; so, my dear Askerne, I am, you see, reckless of the future."
"Damme, Quentin, this will never do——" Monkton was beginning, when Askerne spoke.
"In this mingled mood of sullenness and resignation you will destroy all chance of defeating the machinations of your enemy, for such I—I—consider our colonel to be," said the captain of grenadiers, after a pause. "Buckle and I will prepare your declaration for to-morrow, and it shall be sent to you for revision and emendation soon after reveille; but you must take courage—I insist upon it, for your own sake!"
"I do not lack it!" replied Quentin, firmly.
"By courage, I do not mean an indifference that is the result of misanthropy, or a boldness that is gathered from despair. At your years, Quentin, either were unnatural," said Askerne, kindly.
"My brave lad," said Monkton, putting an arm round him as an elder brother might have done, "have you really no fear of—of death?"
"To say that I have not," replied Quentin, with quivering lip, "would be to state that which is false; but I know death to be the ordinance of God—the fate of all mankind. It is but the end of the course of time—welcome only to such as are weary of their lives. I am not weary of mine, therefore I would indeed find it hard to die. I have always known that I must die, but never considered where or how—how near or how distant the day of doom might be; but I do shrink with horror at the contemplation of dying with a disgrace upon me—a stigma which, though I am innocent, time may never remove."
"I fear that we are but poor comforters, and that you are taking the very blackest view of matters," said Askerne; "but be advised by me, and take courage—a resolute and modest bearing always wins respect. In the court to-morrow are friends who will not see you wronged, for every member there is alike a judge and a juryman. Put your trust in Heaven and in your own innocence; sleep well if you can——"
"And be sure to take something by way of breakfast—a broiled bone and a glass of Valdepenas—you have a long and anxious day before you."
"And so, till we meet again, good night—God bless you, my hearty!"
They shook him warmly by the hand, and retired.
He heard their footsteps descending the stone steps of the old tower (erst trod by the feet of many a turbaned Moor and steel-clad crusader), and then dying away in distance; but soothed and relieved in mind by a visit performed at such risk by his friends, and hoping much—he knew not what—from the notes made by Rowland Askerne, Quentin lay down on his pallet and strove to sleep, amid a silence broken only by the beating of his own heart, and the rush of the Tormes in its deep and rocky bed.
"They at least believe in me, and will not desert me!" he repeated to himself again and again.
But, the brave boyish spirit and hope—the enthusiastic desire to achieve something great and good, no matter what, by land or sea, by flood or field—a glorious deed that present men should vaunt, and those of future times would speak of—where were that hope and spirit now?