第 20 页

are here, too, and if the news comes of his death, she would stir the

band up to kill the prisoners, even if the captain wanted to save

them, which he certainly will not do."

"When is the messenger expected back?"

"If he goes to Vittoria and finds Vagas is alive, and arranges for

the exchange, he won't be back till late to-night, perhaps not till

to-morrow; but, if he hears, either on the way or directly he gets

there, that he is dead, he may be back this afternoon." Soon after

this conversation Garcias was sent for to the chief, and returned

with a small note, which he handed to the boys as the answer to the

despatch, and urged them to go at once. The boys said that they could

not leave until they saw the end of this terrible drama which was

passing before their eyes. It was early in the afternoon when a man

was seen coming along the path from Vittoria. A hundred eager eyes

examined him, and ere long it was declared as certain that it was the

messenger. The boys' heart sank within them as they saw the fierce

look cast by the Spaniards in the direction of the prisoners, for

every one in the village was well aware of the meaning of this early

return. The boys had arranged upon the course they would pursue, and

they at once hurried to Garcias.

"Please come with us at once to Nunez. We want to see him before the

messenger arrives."

"I will come with you," Garcias said; "but if you think that any

talking of yours will persuade Nunez to move out of his way, you are

mistaken. It is more likely to cost you your own lives, I can tell

you; however, I gave you the promise I would do my best for you when

you started with me, and I will go with you now, though what you want

to interfere for here is more than I can make out. Pshaw! what matters

two or three of these accursed French, more or less?"

As they neared the chief's house they saw him coming towards them. His

brow was as black as thunder; he was evidently prepared for the news

of his lieutenant's death.

"These messengers want to speak to you for a moment," Garcias said.

The chief stopped with an impatient gesture.

"Senor," Tom said, with a dignity which surprised the chief; "we are

not what we seem. We are two English officers, and we have come to beg

of you, to implore you, not to tarnish the cause for which you fight

by shedding the blood of women and children."

The boys had agreed that it would be altogether hopeless to try to

save the French officers.

"British officers, indeed," exclaimed Nunez, "a likely story. Do you

know them as such, Garcias?"

"No," Garcias said bluntly, "I never guessed at it; but now they say

so, I think it's likely enough, for they don't seem to see things in

the same way as other people."

"I can give you proof of it," Tom said, calmly, pulling up the sleeve

of his coat, and showing a cicatrix in his forearm. Taking a knife

from his pocket, he cut into the skin, and drew forth a tiny silver

tube. This he opened, and handed to Nunez a paper signed by Lord

Wellington, declaring the bearers to be British officers, and

requesting all loyal Spaniards to give them every assistance.

The captain read it through, and flung it down. "You may be officers,"

he said contemptuously; "but if you were Lord Wellington himself, I

would not spare these accursed French. Listen!" and as he spoke a howl

of rage ran from the other end of the village, and told too plainly

the nature of the tidings the messenger had brought.

"I again protest," Tom said firmly. "I protest, as a British officer,

and in the name of humanity, against this cold-blooded murder of a

woman and child. It is a disgrace to Spain, a disgrace to the cause,

it is a brutal and cowardly act."

The guerilla furiously drew a pistol; but Garcias placed himself

between him and Tom. "I have promised him a safe conduct," he said,

"and have given my word for his safety. He is only a boy, and a young

fool; don't trouble with him."

Fortunately at this moment, for the guerilla was still irresolutely

handling his pistol, a crowd was seen coming towards them, headed by

a woman who seemed frantic with rage and grief. All were shouting,

"Death to the assassins! death to the French!" The chief at once moved

forward to meet them.

Tom and Peter gave a significant glance towards each other, and then

Tom turned to go back towards the house which Nunez inhabited, while

Peter hurried towards the spot where the prisoners were kept. Already

a crowd was assembling who were talking threateningly at the French

officers. Peter made his way through them until he stood by the lady,

who, with her child clinging to her neck, looked in terror at the

angry crowd, whose attention, however, was directed to the officers,

who stood looking calmly indifferent to their threats and insults.

"Do you speak Spanish, madam?" Peter asked, leaning over her.

She shook her head.

"Do you speak English?" he asked, in that tongue.

"Yes, yes, a little." the lady said, eagerly; "who are you? What is

this fierce crowd about?"

"Hush!" Peter said. "I am a friend. Listen. In a few minutes they are

going to shoot you all." The lady gave a stifled cry, and pressed

her child close to her. "Remember, when they come to you, ask for a

priest; gain a few minutes, and I hope to save you and the child."

So saying, he slipped away into the crowd again. He had scarcely done

so when Nunez arrived, accompanied by many of his men. The crowd fell

back, and he strode up to the French officers. "French dogs," he said,

"you are to die. I spared you to exchange, but your compatriots have

murdered my lieutenant, and so now it's your turn. You may think

yourselves lucky that I shoot you, instead of hanging you. Take them

to that wall," he said, pointing to one some twenty yards off.

The Frenchmen understood enough Spanish to know that their fate was

sealed. Without a word they took each other's hands, and marched

proudly to the spot pointed out. Here, turning round, they looked with

calm courage at the Spaniards, who formed up with leveled muskets at

a few paces distance. "Vive la France! Tirez," said the elder, in a

firm, voice, and in a moment they fell back dead, pierced with a dozen

balls.

Peter had turned away when Nunez appeared on the scene, to avoid

seeing the murder, and with his eyes fixed in the direction in which

Tom had gone, he listened almost breathlessly to what should come.

The French lady had sat immovable, cowering over her child, while her

countrymen were taken away and murdered. As Nunez passed where she

crouched, he said to two of his men, "Put your muskets to their heads,

and finish them!" As the men approached, she lifted up her face, pale

as death, and said,--

"Un pretre, uno padre!"

"She wants a priest," the men said, drawing back; "she has a right to

absolution."

There was a murmur of assent from those around, and two or three

started to the priest's house, situated only a few yards away, being

one of the end houses of the village. The priest soon appeared, came

up to the spot, and received orders to shrive the Frenchwoman. He

attempted a remonstrance, but was silenced by a threat from Nunez,

and knowing from experience of such scenes that his influence went

for nothing with Nunez and his fierce band, he bent over her, and the

crowd drew back, to let them speak unheard. At this moment, to Peter's

intense relief, he saw Tom approaching with the captain's two children

walking beside him. Absorbed in what was passing before them, no one

else looked round, and Peter slipped away and joined his brother. They

came within twenty yards of the crowd, and then paused.

"Wait a minute," Tom said to the children, "your father is busy."

In another minute Nunez shouted roughly, "There that will do; finish

with it and have done! I want to be off to my dinner."

Tom and Peter simultaneously drew out a large Spanish knife, and each

took one of the children firmly by the shoulder.

"Stop! Senor Nunez!" Tom shouted in a loud, clear tone. "Stop! or by

heaven there will be four victims instead of two! Let one of you lift

a finger against these captives--let one of you come one step nearer

to us--and, by the Holy Virgin, we will drive our knives into these

children's hearts!"

A cry of astonishment broke from the crowd, and one of agony and rage

from Nunez, who tottered against a wall in horror at the danger in

which his daughters were placed.

"Listen! all of you," Tom said, "we are English officers, we have

shown our papers to Nunez, and he knows it is so. We will not suffer

this murder of a mother and her child. If they are to die, we will die

with them; but these two children shall die too! Now, what is it to

be?"

A dozen of the guerillas leveled their guns at the two daring boys.

"No! no!" Nunez shrieked; "lower your guns. Don't hurt the children,

senors. The captives shall not be hurt; I swear it! They shall go

free. Give me my children."

"Not if I know it," Tom said; "Do you think I could trust the word of

a man who would murder women and children in cold blood? No; these

girls shall go with us as hostages, till we are safe under French

guard."

"They will tell them the way up here," said one of the woman in the

group, "and then we shall be all killed."

"No," Tom said; "the lady shall swear not to tell the way up here. She

shall swear on your priest's crucifix. We will give you our words as

British officers."

"But how are the children to get back here again?" another asked, for

Nunez was so paralyzed that he could only gaze on the children, who

were crying bitterly, and implore them to stand quiet, and not try to

get away. After more parleying the arrangements were completed. The

crowd fell back on either side, so as to leave a large space round the

French lady. Tom and Peter then went up to them with the little girls.

The lady was sobbing with joy and excitement at this unexpected

relief.

"Can you walk?" Tom asked her in English.

"Yes," she said, getting up hastily, but almost falling again.

"Garcias will go first, as guide. The priest will give you his arm,"

Tom went on, "these two young women will go with you and carry your

child if necessary. You will walk on, twenty yards ahead of us. We

follow with these girls. No one is to follow us, or accompany us. We

are to go on like that till we come upon your outposts, and then the

priest and the two women will bring back Nunez's children."

"You will send them safe back, you swear?" asked Nunez, in tremulous

tones.

"Psha!" Tom said contemptuously, "you don't suppose we are

child-murderers, like yourself."

"Remember!" the guerilla said, in a sudden burst of passion, "if you

ever cross my path again, I will--"

"Do terrible things no doubt," Tom said scornfully; "and do you

beware, too. It is wild beasts like yourself who have brought disgrace

and ruin on Spain. No defeat could dishonor and disgrace her as much

as your fiendish cruelty. It is in revenge for the deeds that you and

those like you do, that the French carry the sword and fire to your

villages. We may drive the French out, but never will a country which

fights by murder and treachery become a great nation. Are you ready,

Garcias!"

"I am ready," the muleteer said, stepping forward from the silent and

scowling throng.

"We can trust you," Tom said heartily; "take us the short way straight

down into the valley; we may have the luck to come upon a passing

French troop in an hour. Think of that, madam," he said to the French

lady, "let that give you strength and courage."

So saying, the procession set out in the order Tom had indicated,

amidst the curses of the guerillas, who were furious at seeing

themselves thus bearded. At the brow of the hill Tom looked back, and

saw that the guerillas were still standing in a group, in front of

which he could distinguish the figure of Nunez. Taking off his hat,

he waved an ironical farewell, and then followed the party down

the hillside into the broad valley below. They could see the road

stretching like a thread along it, but to their disappointment, not

a figure was visible upon it. Now that there was no longer danger of

treachery, the party closed up together.

"How far is it to Vittoria, Garcias?"

"Twenty good miles, senor."

"But we shall never get there," Tom said in dismay. "I am sure the

lady could not walk another five miles; she is quite exhausted now."

"You will not have to go five miles, senor. There is a body of four

or five hundred French in that large village you see there; it is not

more than three miles at most."

It was a weary journey, for the French lady, exhausted by fatigue

and excitement, was often obliged to stop and sit down to rest, and,

indeed, could not have got on at all had not Garcias on one side and

the padre on the other helped her on. At last, just as the sun was

setting, they approached the village, and could see the French

sentries at its entrance. When within a hundred yards they paused.

"We are safe now," Tom said; "it is not necessary for you to go

farther. Good-by, little ones; I am sorry we have given you such a

fright, but it was not our fault. Good-by, padre; I know that you will

not grudge your walk, for the sake of its saving the lives of these

unfortunates. Good-by, Garcias; thanks for your kindness and fidelity.

I will report them when I return, and will, if I get a chance, send