第 19 页

but had come direct from the sea-coast by by-paths with powder, and

had been awaiting the departure of Garcias, the name of the leader of

the party. They had eight men with them, all armed to the teeth.

"Is it all right, Garcias?"

"All right," the leader said; "they have sent out their squadrons on

the other road, so I think we are safe for to-day."

"What boys have you got there with you?"

"They have business with Nunez; letter from the coast."

The cavalcade was now in motion again, and wound gradually up into the

hills. Presently they came to a point where four roads met. A clump of

trees grew hard by, and the boys gave a start of horror at seeing the

bodies of six French soldiers swinging from them. "Ay, that's Nunez's

work, I expect," Garcias said coolly. "There were three of his men

swinging there last week, so as a lesson he has hung up six of the

French. He is a rough boy to play with, is Nunez."

At sunset the party slept in a small farm, and at daybreak continued

their journey. They were now in the heart of the mountains, and their

path lay sometimes up deep ravines, sometimes along rocky ledges.

At last, about midday, they entered a valley in which stood a small

village. "That's Nunez's head-quarters to-day," Garcias said;

"to-morrow he may be no one knows where."

"But does he have to sally out by the wretched road by which we have

come?" Tom asked.

"No, no," Garcias replied; "he would not catch much prey that way.

There are three other ways out of the valley. That winding path you

see there leads up to Santona. That road on the other side leads out

on to the plain, and thence to Vittoria; while the footpath over the

brow opposite leads right down into the wide valley through which the

main north road runs. So you see this is a handy spot. From that brow

we can see the convoys going to and from France, and can pour down

upon them if they are weak; while, if a column is sent in search of

us, we can vanish away long before they can catch us. Nunez does not

use the direct road over the brow for his attack, but follows the

Santona or Vittoria road for a while, and then makes a swoop round. He

does not want to bring the French up to this village, for his family

and the families of many of the men live here."

As they approached the village, they found that there was a good deal

of bustle going on. Armed men were coming out of the cottages, and

gathering in a group round a rough stone cross, which stood in the

center of a sort of green. "We are just in time," Garcias said; "Nunez

is starting on some expedition or other."

When they reached the spot there were nearly two hundred men

assembled. They greeted Garcias with shouts of welcome as he arrived.

"Ah, ah! Garcias, just in time. Our last skin of wine was emptied last

night; we will bring some more up to-morrow; but if you had not come

we should have had to start thirsty, and that's unlucky besides being

unpleasant."

"Where is Nunez!" Garcias asked.

"Here he comes," was the reply; and the boys turning saw a figure

approaching, which by no means answered to the expectation of the

celebrated guerilla chief. He was small and almost humpbodied, but

very broad. His head seemed too large for his body, and a pair of

fierce eyes gleamed out from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. His mustache

was thin and bristly and his month wide, but with thin lips. The boys

could understand the reputation for cruelty and mercilessness which

attached to this sinister-looking figure, but there was none of the

savage power which they had expected to see in so celebrated a leader.

"Any news, Garcias?" he asked shortly, as he came up.

"None, captain, except that these boys have brought some despatches

for you from the English Lord."

Nunez looked sharply at them, and held out his hand without speaking.

Tom gave him the little quill.

The guerilla opened it, read the contents, and, saying briefly, "An

answer to-morrow," strode on to his men, and in a few minutes they

were defiling out at the end of the valley.

"That hardly seems a strong enough body to attack a French convoy,

Garcias," Tom remarked.

"No, it would not be, but there is only a part of his band here; the

rest will join him at some place agreed on--perhaps ten miles from

here. I believe he has about thousand men under his orders. Now come

along; we shall be none the worse for dinner," and, leaving his men to

unload the mules, he led the way into the little posada, or inn.

"Ah! Mother Morena," he said to an old woman who was crouching near a

blazing wood fire, "warming yourself as usual; it's well you've a good

fire, for you will be able to get us some dinner all the more quickly.

Twelve of us altogether, and all as hungry as wolves."

"Ah!" exclaimed the old woman crossly; "it seems as if I were never to

have an hour's quiet, just as all that roaring, greedy lot, with their

Mother Morena here and Mother Morena there, and their grumbling at

the olla, and their curses and their quarrels, are off, and I think I

am going to have a quiet afternoon, then you come in with your twelve

hungry wolves."

"Ah! mother, but wolves don't pay, and we do, you see."

The frugal supper over, the boys laid down on the benches, and were

soon asleep. The next day passed slowly, for the band were not

expected to return until late at night--perhaps not until the next

morning, as the pass where the attack would be made was some fifteen

miles off, and the convoy might not pass there until late in the

afternoon. The boys soon made friends with some of the women and

children of the place, to whom they told stories of the great cities

of the plain, and of the great water which washed the shores of Spain.

The greater portion of the Spanish peasantry are incredibly ignorant,

and very few of the inhabitants of this village had ever gone beyond

the mountains. Walking about in the village, but apparently mixing but

very little in the games of the other children, were two little girls,

whose gay dress of rich silk seemed strangely out of place in such a

spot.

Tom asked one of the women who they were, and she replied, with a toss

of the head, "They are the captain's children. The last time the band

went out they found among the baggage and brought up here, the dresses

of the children of some fine lady, and the captain kept them all as

part of his share, just as if there were no children in the village

whom it would become a great deal better than those stuck-up little

things. Not," she said, softening a little, "that they were not nice

enough before they got these things; but since they came their heads

have been quite turned by the finery and they are almost too grand to

speak to their old playfellows."

"Is their mother alive?"

"No, poor thing, she was killed by the French when the village she

lived in was burned by them, because some of them were found hung in

the neighborhood. The captain was away at the time and the children

were out in the woods. When he came back he found them crying by the

side of their mother's body, in the middle of the burning village. So

then he took to the mountains, and he never spares a Frenchman who

falls into his hands. He has suffered, of course, but he brought it

upon himself, for he had a hand in hanging the French soldiers, and

now he is a devil. It will be bad for us all; for some day, when the

French are not busy with other things, they will rout us out here, and

then who can blame them if they pay us for all the captain's deeds?

Ah! me, they are terrible times, and Father Predo says he thinks the

end of the world must be very near. I hope it will come before the

French have time to hunt us down."

The boys had a hard struggle not to smile, but the woman spoke so

earnestly and seriously, that they could only shake their heads in

grave commiseration for her trouble; and then Tom asked, "Is the

captain very fond of the children?"

"He worships them," the woman said; "he has no heart and no pity for

others. He thinks no more of blood than I do of water; but he is as

tender as a woman with them. One of them was ill the other day--a mere

nothing, a little fever--and he sat by her bedside for eight days

without ever lying down."

"I suppose," Tom said, "they never bring prisoners up here?"

"Yes, they do," the woman said; "not common soldiers; they kill them

at once; but sometimes officers, if they want to exchange them for

some of ours who may have been taken, or if they think they are likely

to get a high ransom for them. But there, it always comes to the same

thing; there, where you see that mound on the hillside, that's where

they are. They blindfold them on their way up here, lest they might

find their way back after all. Only one or two have ever gone down

again. I wish they would finish with them all down below; they are

devils and heretics these French; but I don't care about seeing them

killed. Many of us do, though, and we have not many diversions up

here, so I suppose it's all for the best."

"I wish that fellow had given us our answer before he went away,"

Tom said to Peter when they were alone. "I hope he won't bring any

prisoners up here; these massacres are frightful, and one side seems

as bad as the other. Well, in another month we shall have finished

with all this work, and be making for the frontier again. Shan't I be

glad when we catch sight of the first red-coats!"

In the middle of the night the boys were roused by a general bustle,

and found that a messenger had just arrived, saying that the

expedition had been successful, that a portion of the enemy had been

cut off, their rear-guard destroyed, and that the whole band would be

up soon after daylight. The village was astir early, but it was not

until nine o'clock that the guerilla band arrived. The boys saw at a

glance that they were stronger in numbers than when they started, and

that with them were some twenty or thirty baggage animals.

The women flocked out to meet them with shrill cries of welcome. The

booty taken was not of any great value in money, but was more valuable

than gold to the guerillas.

Each one of the band carried, in addition to his own piece, a new

French musket, while in the barrels on the mules were powder and ball;

there were bales of cloth, and some cases of brandy and champagne, and

a few boxes and portmanteaus of officers' baggage. In the rear of all,

under a strong guard, were two French officers, both wounded, a lady

and a child of some seven or eight years old.

After a boisterous greeting to their wives, the band broke up, and

scattered over the village, three or four men remaining to guard the

captives, who were told to sit down against a wall.

The whole band were soon engaged in feasting, but no one paid the

least attention to the prisoners. The lady had sunk down exhausted,

with the little girl nestled close to her, the officers faint and pale

from loss of blood, leaned against the wall. One of them asked the

guards for some water, but the men paid no attention to the request,

answering only with a savage curse. Tom and Peter, who were standing

by, immediately went to the inn, filled a jug with water, and, taking

a drinking horn and some bread, went back. One of the guards angrily

ordered them back as they approached.

"I am not going to free them," Tom said, soothingly; "there can be no

reason why they should die of thirst, if they are enemies."

"I am thirsty myself," one of the guard said, "and it does us good to

see them thirst."

"What, has no one brought you anything to drink?" Tom said, in a tone

of surprise. "Here, Peter, you give this bread and water to these

prisoners; I will run to Mother Morena's and bring some wine for the

guard."

The guard would not allow Peter to approach the captives until Tom

arrived with a large jug of wine, and a cold fowl, which he had

obtained at the inn. These the Spaniards accepted, and allowed the

boys to give the water to the prisoners. All drank eagerly, with every

expression of thankfulness, the lady seizing Peter's hand and kissing

it as he handed the horn to the child. The lady was a very bright,

pretty woman, though now pale and worn with fatigue and emotion, and

the child was a lovely little creature.

The boys, on leaving the prisoners, hurried to Garcias.

"What are they going to do with the prisoners, Garcias?"

"They have brought them up here to exchange for Nunez's lieutenant,

who was taken last week. One of the men went off last night to

Vittoria with a letter to offer to exchange. One of the officers is a

colonel, and the young one a captain. The lady is, they say, the wife

of General Reynier."

"Then they are safe," Tom said joyfully, "for, of course the French

would exchange a guerilla against three such prisoners."

"Yes," Garcias said, "they are safe if Vagas has not been shot before

the messenger gets to Vittoria. The messenger will hear directly he

gets there, and if they have finished Vagas, he will come straight

back, for his letter will be of no use then."

"But the French would pay a ransom for them."

"Yes; but the captain is never fond of ransoming, and if the news

comes that Vagas is shot it is all up with them."

"But they will never murder a woman and child in cold blood!" Tom

said, in tones of indignant horror.

"Women are killed on both sides," the muleteer said, placidly. "I

don't hold to it myself, but I don't know, after all, why a woman's

life is a bit more precious than a man's. Vagas's wife and children