The action of this day was fought off Portland. During the three
days the British fleet had been to sea they had received almost
hourly reinforcements. From every harbour and fishing port along
the coast from Plymouth to the Isle of Wight vessels of all sizes,
smacks, and boats put off, crowded with noblemen and gentlemen
anxious to take part in the action, and their enthusiasm added to
that of the weary and ill fed sailors. At the end of the third day
the English fleet had increased to a hundred sail, many of which,
however, were of very small burden.

CHAPTER IX

THE ROUT OF THE ARMADA

The fight between the fleets had begun on Sunday morning, and at the
end of the third day the strength of the Armada remained unbroken.
The moral effect had no doubt been great, but the loss of two or
three ships was a trifle to so large a force, and the spirit of
the Spaniards had been raised by the gallant and successful defence
the San Marcos had made on the Tuesday afternoon. Wednesday was
again calm. The magazines of the English ships were empty. Though
express after express had been sent off praying that ammunition
might be sent, none had arrived, and the two fleets lay six miles
apart without action, save that the galleasses came out and skirmished
for a while with the English ships.

That evening, however, a supply of ammunition sufficient for another
day's fighting arrived, and soon after daybreak the English fleet
moved down towards the Armada, and for the first time engaged them
at close quarters. The Ark Raleigh, the Bear, the Elizabeth Jones,
the Lion, and the Victory bore on straight into the centre of the
Spanish galleons, exchanging broadsides with each as they passed.
Oquendo with his vessel was right in the course of the English
flagship, and a collision took place, in which the Ark Raleigh's
rudder was unshipped, and she became unmanageable.

The enemy's vessels closed round her, but she lowered her boats,
and these, in spite of the fire of the enemy, brought her head round
before the wind, and she made her way through her antagonists and
got clear. For several hours the battle continued. The Spanish fire
was so slow, and their ships so unwieldy, that it was rarely they
succeeded in firing a shot into their active foes, while the English
shot tore their way through the massive timbers of the Spanish
vessels, scattering the splinters thickly among the soldiers, who
had been sent below to be out of harm's way; but beyond this, and
inflicting much damage upon masts and spars, the day's fighting
had no actual results. No captures were made by the English.

The Spaniards suffered, but made no sign; nevertheless their
confidence in their powers was shaken. Their ammunition was also
running short, and they had no hope of refilling their magazines
until they effected a junction with Parma. Their admiral that night
wrote to him asking that two shiploads of shot and powder might
be sent to him immediately. "The enemy pursue me," he said; "they
fire upon me most days from morning till nightfall, but they will
not close and grapple. I have given them every opportunity. I
have purposely left ships exposed to tempt them to board, but they
decline to do it; and there is no remedy, for they are swift and we
are slow. They have men and ammunition in abundance." The Spanish
admiral was unaware that the English magazines were even more empty
than his own.

On Friday morning Howard sailed for Dover to take in the supplies
that were so sorely needed. The Earl of Sussex, who was in command
of the castle, gave him all that he had, and the stores taken from
the prizes came up in light vessels and were divided among the
fleet, and in the evening the English fleet again sailed out and
took up its place in the rear of the Armada. On Saturday morning
the weather changed. After six days of calm and sunshine it began
to blow hard from the west, with driving showers. The Spaniards,
having no pilots who knew the coasts, anchored off Calais. The
English fleet, closely watching their movements, brought up two
miles astern.

The Spanish admiral sent off another urgent letter to Parma
at Dunkirk, begging him to send immediately thirty or forty fast
gunboats to keep the English at bay. Parma had received the admiral's
letters, and was perfectly ready to embark his troops, but could
not do this as the admiral expected he would, until the fleet came
up to protect him. The lighters and barges he had constructed for
the passage were only fit to keep the sea in calm weather, and
would have been wholly at the mercy of even a single English ship
of war. He could not, therefore, embark his troops until the duke
arrived. As to the gunboats asked for, he had none with him.

But while the Spanish admiral had grave cause for uneasiness in
the situation in which he found himself, Lord Howard had no greater
reason for satisfaction. In spite of his efforts the enemy's
fleet had arrived at their destination with their strength still
unimpaired, and were in communication with the Duke of Parma's
army. Lord Seymour had come up with a squadron from the mouth of
the Thames, but his ships had but one day's provisions on board,
while Drake and Howard's divisions had all but exhausted their
supplies. The previous day's fighting had used up the ammunition
obtained at Dover. Starvation would drive every English ship from
the sea in another week at the latest. The Channel would then be
open for the passage of Parma's army.

At five o'clock on Sunday evening a council of war was held in Lord
Howard's cabin, and it was determined, that as it was impossible
to attack the Spanish Fleet where they lay at the edge of shallow
water, an attempt must be made to drive them out into the Channel
with fireships. Eight of the private vessels were accordingly taken,
and such combustibles as could be found--pitch, tar, old sails,
empty casks, and other materials--were piled into them. At
midnight the tide set directly from the English fleet towards the
Spaniards, and the fireships, manned by their respective crews,
hoisted sail and drove down towards them.

When near the Armada the crews set fire to the combustibles, and
taking to their boats rowed back to the fleet. At the sight of the
flames bursting up from the eight ships bearing down upon them,
the Spaniards were seized with a panic. The admiral fired a gun as
a signal, and all cut their cables and hoisted sail, and succeeded
in getting out to sea before the fireships arrived. They lay to six
miles from shore, intending to return in the morning and recover
their anchors; but Drake with his division of the fleet, and Seymour
with the squadron from the Thames, weighed their anchors and stood
off after them, while Howard with his division remained off Calais,
where, in the morning, the largest of the four galleasses was seen
aground on Calais Bar. Lord Howard wasted many precious hours in
capturing her before he set off to join Drake and Seymour, who were
thundering against the Spanish fleet. The wind had got up during
the night, and the Spaniards had drifted farther than they expected,
and when morning dawned were scattered over the sea off Gravelines.
Signals were made for them to collect, but before they could do so
Drake and Seymour came up and opened fire within pistol shot. The
English admiral saw at once that, with the wind rising from the
south, if he could drive the unwieldy galleons north they would
be cut off from Dunkirk, and would not be able to beat back again
until there was a change of wind.

All through the morning the English ships poured a continuous
shower of shot into the Spanish vessels, which, huddled together
in a confused mass, were unable to make any return whatever. The
duke and Oquendo, with some of the best sailors among the Fleet,
tried to beat out from the crowd and get room to manoeuvre, but
Drake's ships were too weatherly and too well handled to permit
of this, and they were driven back again into the confused mass,
which was being slowly forced towards the shoals and banks of the
coasts.

Howard came up at noon with his division, and until sunset the fire
was maintained, by which time almost the last cartridge was spent,
and the crews worn our by their incessant labour. They took no
prizes, for they never attempted to board. They saw three great
galleons go down, and three more drift away towards the sands of
Ostend, where they were captured either by the English garrisoned
there or by three vessels sent by Lord Willoughby from Flushing,
under the command of Francis Vere. Had the English ammunition lasted
but a few more hours the whole of the Armada would have been either
driven ashore or sunk; but when the last cartridge had been burned
the assailants drew off to take on board the stores which had,
while the fighting was going on, been brought up by some provision
ships from the Thames.

But the Spaniards were in no condition to benefit by the cessation
of the attack. In spite of the terrible disadvantages under which
they laboured, they had fought with splendid courage. The sides of
the galleons had been riddled with shot, and the splinters caused by
the rending of the massive timbers had done even greater execution
than the iron hail. Being always to leeward, and heeling over
with the wind, the ships had been struck again and again below the
waterline, and many were only kept from sinking by nailing sheets
of lead over the shot holes.

Their guns were, for the most part, dismounted or knocked to pieces.
Several had lost masts, the carnage among the crews was frightful,
and yet not a single ship hauled down her colours. The San Mateo,
which was one of those that grounded between Ostend and Sluys,
fought to the last, and kept Francis Vere's three ships at bay for
two hours, until she was at last carried by boarding.

Left to themselves at the end of the day, the Spaniards gathered
in what order they could, and made sail for the north. On counting
the losses they found that four thousand men had been killed or
drowned, and the number of wounded must have been far greater. The
crews were utterly worn out and exhausted. They had the day before
been kept at work cleaning and refitting, and the fireships had
disturbed them early in the night. During the engagement there had
been no time to serve out food, and the labours of the long struggle
had completely exhausted them. Worst of all, they were utterly
disheartened by the day's fighting. They had been pounded by their
active foes, who fired five shots to their one, and whose vessels
sailed round and round them, while they themselves had inflicted
no damage that they could perceive upon their assailants.

The English admirals had no idea of the extent of the victory they
had won. Howard, who had only come up in the middle of the fight,
believed that they "were still wonderful great and strong," while
even Drake, who saw more clearly how much they had suffered,
only ventured to hope that some days at least would elapse before
they could join hands with Parma. In spite of the small store of
ammunition that had arrived the night before, the English magazines
were almost empty; but they determined to show a good front, and
"give chase as though they wanted nothing."

When the morning dawned the English fleet were still to windward
of the Armada, while to leeward were lines of white foam, where
the sea was breaking on the shoals of Holland. It seemed that the
Armada was lost. At this critical moment the wind suddenly shifted
to the east. This threw the English fleet to leeward, and enabled
the Spaniards to head out from the coast and make for the North
Sea. The Spanish admiral held a council. The sea had gone down,
and they had now a fair wind for Calais; and the question was put
to the sailing masters and captains whether they should return into
the Channel or sail north round Scotland and Ireland, and so return
to Spain. The former was the courageous course, but the spirit of the
Spaniards was broken, and the vote was in favour of what appeared
a way of escape. Therefore, the shattered Fleet bore on its way
north. On board the English fleet a similar council was being held,
and it was determined that Lord Seymour's squadron should return to
guard the Channel, lest Parma should take advantage of the absence
of the fleet to cross from Dunkirk to England, and that Howard and
Drake with their ninety ships should pursue the Spaniards; for it
was not for a moment supposed that the latter had entirely abandoned
their enterprise, and intended to return to Spain without making
another effort to rejoin Parma.

During the week's fighting Geoffrey and Lionel Vickars had taken
such part as they could in the contest; but as there had been
no hand to hand fighting, the position of the volunteers on board
the fleet had been little more than that of spectators. The crews
worked the guns and manoeuvred the sails, and the most the lads
could do was to relieve the ship boys in carrying up powder and
shot, and to take round drink to men serving the guns. When not
otherwise engaged they had watched with intense excitement the
manoeuvres of their own ship and of those near them, as they swept
down towards the great hulls, delivered their broadsides, and then
shot off again before the Spaniards had had time to discharge more
than a gun or two. The sails had been pierced in several places,
but not a single shot had struck the hull of the vessel. In the
last day's fighting, however, the Active became entangled among
several of the Spanish galleons, and being almost becalmed by their
lofty hulls, one of them ran full at her, and rolling heavily in
the sea, seemed as if she would overwhelm her puny antagonist.

Geoffrey was standing at the end of the poop when the mizzen rigging
became entangled in the stern gallery of the Spaniard, and a moment
later the mast snapped off, and as it fell carried him overboard.
For a moment he was half stunned, but caught hold of a piece of
timber shot away from one of the enemy's ships, and clung to it
mechanically. When he recovered and looked round, the Active had
drawn out from between the Spaniards, and the great galleon which
had so nearly sunk her was close beside him.

The sea was in a turmoil; the waves as they set in from the west
being broken up by the rolling of the great ships, and torn by the
hail of shot. The noise was prodigious, from the incessant cannonade
kept up by the English ships and the return of the artillery on
board the Armada, the rending of timber, the heavy crashes as the
great galleons rolled against one another, the shouting on board
the Spanish ships, the creaking of the masts and yards, and the
flapping of the sails.

On trying to strike out, Geoffrey found that as he had been knocked
overboard he had struck his right knee severely against the rail
of the vessel, and was at present unable to use that leg. Fearful
of being run down by one of the great ships, and still more of being
caught between two of them as they rolled, he looked round to try
to get sight of an English ship in the throng. Then, seeing that
he was entirely surrounded by Spaniards, he left the spar and swam
as well as he could to the bow of a great ship close beside him,
and grasping a rope trailing from the bowsprit, managed by its aid
to climb up until he reached the bobstay, across which he seated
himself with his back to the stem. The position was a precarious
one, and after a time he gained the wooden carved work above, and
obtained a seat there just below the bowsprit, and hidden from the
sight of those on deck a few feet above him. As he knew the vessels
were drifting to leeward towards the shoals, he hoped to remain
hidden until the vessel struck, and then to gain the shore.

Presently the shifting of the positions of the ships brought the
vessel on which he was into the outside line. The shots now flew
thickly about, and he could from time to time feel a jar as the
vessel was struck.

So an hour went on. At the end of that time he heard a great shouting
on deck, and the sound of men running to and fro. Happening to look
down he saw that the sea was but a few feet below him, and knew
that the great galleon was sinking. Another quarter of an hour she
was so much lower that he was sure she could not swim many minutes
longer; and to avoid being drawn down with her he dropped into the
water and swam off. He was but a short distance away when he heard
a loud cry, and glancing over his shoulder saw the ship disappearing.
He swam desperately, but was caught in the suck and carried under;
but there was no great depth of water, and he soon came to the
surface again. The sea was dotted with struggling men and pieces
of wreckage. He swam to one of the latter, and held on until he
saw some boats, which the next Spanish ship had lowered when she
saw her consort disappearing, rowing towards them, and was soon
afterwards hauled into one of them. He had closed his eyes as it
came up, and assumed the appearance of insensibility, and he lay
in the bottom of the boat immovable, until after a time he heard
voices above, and then felt himself being carried up the ladder
and laid down on the deck.

He remained quiet for some rime, thinking over what he had best do.
He was certain that were it known he was English he would at once
be stabbed and thrown overboard, for there was no hope of quarter;
but he was for some time unable to devise any plan by which, even
for a short rime, to conceal his nationality. He only knew a few
words of Spanish, and would be detected the moment he opened his
lips. He thought of leaping up suddenly and jumping overboard;
but his chance of reaching the English ships to windward would be
slight indeed. At last an idea struck him, and sitting up he opened
his eyes and looked round. Several other Spaniards who had been
picked up lay exhausted on the deck near him. A party of soldiers
and sailors close by were working a cannon. The bulwarks were
shot away in many places, dead and dying men lay scattered about,
the decks were everywhere stained with blood, and no one paid any
attention to him until presently the fire began to slacken. Shortly
afterwards a Spanish officer came up and spoke to him.

Geoffrey rose to his feet, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and burst into
an idiotic laugh. The officer spoke again but he paid no attention,
and the Spaniard turned away, believing that the lad had lost his
senses from fear and the horrors of the day.

As night came on he was several times addressed, but always with
the same result. When after dark food and wine were served out,
he seized the portion offered to him, and hurrying away crouched
under the shelter of a gun, and devoured it as if fearing it would
be taken from him again.

When he saw that the sailors were beginning to repair some of the
most necessary ropes and stays that had been shot away, he pushed
his way through them and took his share of the work, laughing
idiotically from time to time. He had, when he saw that the galleon
was sinking, taken off his doublet, the better to be able to swim,
and in his shirt and trunks there was nothing to distinguish him
from a Spaniard, and none suspected that he was other than he seemed
to be--a ship's boy, who had lost his senses from fear. When the
work was done, he threw himself on the deck with the weary sailors.
His hopes were that the battle would be renewed in the morning, and
that either the ship might be captured, or that an English vessel
might pass so close alongside that he might leap over and swim to
her.

Great was his disappointment next day when the sudden change of
wind gave the Spanish fleet the weather gage, and enabled them to
steer away for the north. He joined in the work of the crew, paying
no attention whatever to what was passing around him, or heeding
in the slightest the remarks made to him. Once or twice when an
officer spoke to him sternly he gave a little cry, ran to the side,
and crouched down as if in abject fear. In a very short time no
attention was paid to him, and he was suffered to go about as he
chose, being regarded as a harmless imbecile. He was in hopes that
the next day the Spaniards would change their course and endeavour
to beat back to the Channel, and was at once disappointed and
surprised as they sped on before the southwesterly wind, which
was hourly increasing in force. Some miles behind he could see the
English squadron in pursuit; but these made no attempt to close
up, being well contented to see the Armada sailing away, and being
too straitened in ammunition to wish to bring on an engagement so
long as the Spaniards were following their present course.

The wind blew with ever increasing force; the lightly ballasted
ships made bad weather, rolling deep in the seas, straining heavily,
and leaking badly through the opening seams and the hastily stopped
shot holes. Water was extremely scarce, and at a signal from the
admiral all the horses and mules were thrown overboard in order
to husband the supply. Several of the masts, badly injured by the
English shot, went by the board, and the vessels dropped behind
crippled, to be picked up by the pursuing fleet.

Lord Howard followed as far as the mouth of the Forth; and seeing
that the Spaniards made no effort to enter the estuary, and his
provisions being now well nigh exhausted, he hove the fleet about
and made back for the Channel, leaving two small vessels only to
follow the Armada and watch its course, believing that it would
make for Denmark, refit there, and then return to rejoin Parma.

It was a grievous disappointment to the English to be thus forced
by want of provisions to relinquish the pursuit. Had they been
properly supplied with provisions and ammunition they could have
made an end of the Armada; whereas, they believed that by allowing
them now to escape the whole work would have to be done over again.
They had sore trouble to get back again off the Norfolk coast. The
wind became so furious that the fleet was scattered. A few of the
largest ships reached Margate; others were driven into Harwich,
others with difficulty kept the sea until the storm broke.

It might have been thought that after such service as the fleet
had rendered even Elizabeth might have been generous; but now that
the danger was over, she became more niggardly than ever. No fresh
provisions were supplied for the sick men, and though in the fight
off the Dutch coast only some fifty or sixty had been killed, in
the course of a very short time the crews were so weakened by deaths
and disease that scarce a ship could have put to sea, however urgent
the necessity. Drake and Howard spent every penny they could raise
in buying fresh meat and vegetables, and in procuring some sort of
shelter on shore for the sick. Had the men received the wages due
to them they could have made a shift to have purchased what they
so urgently required; but though the Treasury was full of money,
not a penny was forthcoming until every item of the accounts had
been investigated and squabbled over. Howard was compelled to pay
from his private purse for everything that had been purchased at
Plymouth, Sir John Hawkins was absolutely ruined by the demands
made on him to pay for necessaries supplied to the fleet, and had
the admirals and sailors of the fleet that saved England behaved
like ignominious cowards, their treatment could not have been worse
than that which they received at the hands of their sovereign.

But while the English seamen were dying like sheep from disease
and neglect, their conquered foes were faring no better. They had
breathed freely for the first time when they saw the English fleet
bear up; an examination was made of the provisions that were left,
and the crews were placed on rations of eight ounces of bread,
half a pint of wine, and a pint of water a day. The fleet was still
a great one, for of the hundred and fifty ships which had sailed
from Corunna, a hundred and twenty still held together. The weather
now turned bitterly cold, with fog and mist, squalls and driving
showers; and the vessels, when they reached the north coast of
Scotland, lost sight of each other, and each struggled for herself
in the tempestuous sea.

A week later the weather cleared, and on the 9th of August Geoffrey
looking round at daybreak saw fifteen other ships in sight. Among
these were the galleons of Calderon and Ricaldo, the Rita, San
Marcos, and eleven other vessels. Signals were flying from all of
them, but the sea was so high that it was scarce possible to lower
a boat. That night it again blew hard and the fog closed in, and
in the morning Geoffrey found that the ship he was on, and all
the others, with the exception of that of Calderon, were steering
north; the intention of Ricaldo and De Leyva being to make for the
Orkneys and refit there. Calderon had stood south, and had come
upon Sidonia with fifty ships; and these, bearing well away to the
west of Ireland, finally succeeded for the most part in reaching
Spain, their crews reduced by sickness and want to a mere shadow
of their original strength.

The cold became bitter as De Leyva's ships made their way towards
the Orkneys. The storm was furious, and the sailors, unaccustomed
to the cold and weakened by disease and famine, could no longer
work their ships, and De Leyva was obliged at last to abandon
his intention and make south. One galleon was driven on the Faroe
Islands, a second on the Orkneys, and a third on the Isle of Mull,
where it was attacked by the natives and burned with almost every
one on board. The rest managed to make the west coast of Ireland,
and the hope that they would find shelter in Galway Bay, or the
mouth of the Shannon, began to spring up in the breasts of the
exhausted crews.

The Irish were their co-religionists and allies, and had only been
waiting for news of the success of the Armada to rise in arms against
the English, who had but few troops there. Rumours of disaster had
arrived, and a small frigate had been driven into Tralee Bay. The
fears of the garrison at Tralee Castle overcame their feelings of
humanity, and all on board were put to death. Two galleons put into
Dingle, and landing begged for water; but the natives, deciding
that the Spanish cause was a lost one, refused to give them a drop,
seized the men who had landed in the boats, and the galleons had
to put to sea again.

Another ship of a thousand tons, Our Lady of the Rosary, was driven
into the furious straits between the Blasket Islands and the coast
of Kerry. Of her crew of seven hundred, five hundred had died.
Before she got halfway through she struck among the breakers, and
all the survivors perished save the son of the pilot, who was washed
ashore lashed to a plank. Six others who had reached the mouth of
the Shannon sent their boats ashore for water; but although there
were no English there the Irish feared to supply them, even though
the Spaniards offered any sum of money for a few casks. One of the
ships was abandoned and the others put to sea, only to be dashed
ashore in the same gale that wrecked Our Lady of the Rosary, and
of all their crews only one hundred and fifty men were cast ashore
alive. Along the coast of Connemara, Mayo, and Sligo many other
ships were wrecked. In almost every case the crews who reached the
shore were at once murdered by the native savages for the sake of
their clothes and jewellery.

Geoffrey had suffered as much as the rest of the crew on board
the galleon in which he sailed. All were so absorbed by their own
suffering and misery that none paid any attention to the idiot boy
in their midst. He worked at such work as there was to do: assisted
to haul on the ropes, to throw the dead overboard, and to do what
could be done for the sick and wounded. Like all on board he was
reduced almost to a skeleton, and was scarce able to stand.

As the surviving ships passed Galway Bay, one of them, which was
leaking so badly that she could only have been kept afloat a few
hours in any case, entered it, and brought up opposite the town. Don
Lewis of Cordova, who commanded, sent a party on shore, believing
that in Galway, between which town and Spain there had always been
close connections, they would be well received. They were, however,
at once taken prisoners. An attempt was made to get up the anchors
again, but the crew were too feeble to be able to do so, and the
natives coming out in their boats, all were taken prisoners and sent
on shore. Sir Richard Bingham, the governor of Connaught, arrived
in a few hours, and at once despatched search parties through Clare
and Connemara to bring all Spaniards cast ashore alive to the town,
and sent his son to Mayo to fetch down all who landed there. But
young Bingham's mission proved useless; every Spaniard who had
landed had been murdered by the natives, well nigh three thousand
having been slain by the axes and knives of the savages who professed
to be their co-religionists.

Sir Richard Bingham was regarded as a humane man, but he feared
the consequences should the eleven hundred prisoners collected at
Galway be restored to health and strength. He had but a handful of
troops under him, and had had the greatest difficulty in keeping
down the Irish alone. With eleven hundred Spanish soldiers to aid
them the task would be impossible, and accordingly he gave orders
that all, with the exception of Don Lewis himself, and three or
four other nobles, should be executed. The order was carried out;
Don Lewis, with those spared, was sent under an escort to Dublin,
but the others being too feeble to walk were killed or died on the
way, and Don Lewis himself was the sole survivor out of the crews
of a dozen ships.

De Leyva, the most popular officer in the Armada, had with him in
his ship two hundred and fifty young nobles of the oldest families
in Spain. He was twice wrecked. The first time all reached the
shore in safety, and were protected by O'Niel, who was virtually
the sovereign of the north of Ulster. He treated them kindly for
a time. They then took to sea again, but were finally wrecked off
Dunluce, and all on board save five perished miserably. Over eight
thousand Spaniards died on the Irish coast. Eleven hundred were put
to death by Bingham, three thousand murdered by the Irish, the rest
drowned; and of the whole Armada but fifty-four vessels, carrying
between nine and ten thousand worn out men, reached Spain, and of
the survivors a large proportion afterwards died from the effects
of the sufferings they had endured.

CHAPTER X

THE WAR IN HOLLAND

In the confusion caused by the collision of the Active with the
Spanish galleon no one had noticed the accident which had befallen
Geoffrey Vickars, and his brother's distress was great when, on the
ship getting free from among the Spaniards, he discovered that
Geoffrey was missing. He had been by his side on the poop but
a minute before the mast fell, and had no doubt that he had been
carried overboard by its wreck. That he had survived he had not
the least hope, and when a week later the Active on her way back
towards the Thames was driven into Harwich, he at once landed and
carried the sad news to his parents. England was wild with joy at
its deliverance, but the household at Hedingham was plunged into
deep sorrow.

Weeks passed and then Lionel received a letter from Francis Vere
saying that Parma's army was advancing into Holland, and that as
active work was at hand he had best, if his intentions remained
unchanged, join him without delay.

He started two days later for Harwich, and thence took ship for
Bergen op Zoom. Anchoring at Flushing, he learned that the Duke of
Parma had already sat down in front of Bergen op Zoom, and had on
the 7th attempted to capture Tholen on the opposite side of the
channel, but had been repulsed by the regiment of Count Solms, with
a loss of 400 men. He had then thrown up works against the water
forts, and hot fighting had gone on, the garrison making frequent
sallies upon the besiegers. The water forts still held out, and
the captain therefore determined to continue his voyage into the
town. The ship was fired at by the Spanish batteries, but passed
safely between the water forts and dropped anchor in the port on
the last day of September, Lionel having been absent from Holland
just a year. He landed at once and made his way to the lodgings of
Francis Vere, by whom he was received with great cordiality.

"I was greatly grieved," he said after the first greetings, "to
hear of your brother's death. I felt it as if he had been a near
relative of my own. I had hoped to see you both; and that affair
concerning which my cousin wrote to me, telling me how cleverly
you had discovered a plot against the queen's life, showed me that
you would both be sure to make your way. Your father and mother
must have felt the blow terribly?"

"They have indeed," Lionel said. "I do not think, however, that
they altogether give up hope. They cling to the idea that he may
have been picked up by some Spanish ship and may now be a prisoner
in Spain."

Francis Vere shook his head.

"Of course, I know," Lionel went on, "their hope is altogether
without foundation; for even had Geoffrey gained one of their
ships, he would at once have been thrown overboard. Still I rather
encouraged the idea, for it is better that hope should die out
gradually than be extinguished at a blow; and slight though it
was it enabled my father and mother to bear up better than they
otherwise would have done. Had it not been for that I believe that
my mother would have well nigh sunk beneath it. I was very glad
when I got your letter, for active service will be a distraction to
my sorrow. We have ever been together, Geoffrey and I, and I feel
like one lost without him. You have not had much fighting here, I
think, since I have been away?"

"No, indeed; you have been far more lucky than I have," Francis Vere
said. "With the exception of the fight with the San Mateo I have
been idle ever since I saw you, for not a shot has been fired here,
while you have been taking part in the great fight for the very
existence of our country. It is well that Parma has been wasting
nine months at Dunkirk, for it would have gone hard with us had
he marched hither instead of waiting there for the arrival of the
Armada. Our force here has fallen away to well nigh nothing. The
soldiers could get no pay, and were almost starved; their clothes
were so ragged that it was pitiful to see them. Great numbers have
died, and more gone back to England. As to the Dutch, they are more
occupied in quarrelling with us than in preparing for defence, and
they would right willingly see us go so that we did but deliver
Flushing and Brill and this town back again to them. I was truly
glad when I heard that Parma had broken up his camp at Dunkirk
when the Armada sailed away, and was marching hither. Now that he
has come, it may be that these wretched disputes will come to an
end, and that something like peace and harmony will prevail in our
councils. He could not have done better, as far as we are concerned,
than in coming to knock his head against these walls; for Bergen
is far too strong for him to take, and he will assuredly meet with
no success here such as would counterbalance in any way the blow
that Spanish pride has suffered in the defeat of the Armada. I
think, Lionel, that you have outgrown your pageship, and since you
have been fighting as a gentleman volunteer in Drake's fleet you
had best take the same rank here."

The siege went on but slowly. Vigorous sorties were made, and the
cavalry sometimes sallied out from the gates and made excursions as
far as Wouw, a village three miles away, and took many prisoners.
Among these were two commissaries of ordnance, who were intrusted
to the safe keeping of the Deputy Provost Redhead. They were not
strictly kept, and were allowed to converse with the provost's
friends. One of these, William Grimeston, suspected that one of
the commissaries, who pretended to be an Italian, was really an
English deserter who had gone over with the traitor Stanley; and
in order to see if his suspicions were correct, pretended that he
was dissatisfied with his position and would far rather be fighting
on the other side. The man at once fell into the trap, acknowledged
that he was an Englishman, and said that if Grimeston and Redhead
would but follow his advice they would soon become rich men, for
that if they could arrange to give up one of the forts to Parma
they would be magnificently rewarded.

Redhead and Grimeston pretended to agree, but at once informed Lord
Willoughby, who was in command, of the offer that had been made to
them. They were ordered to continue their negotiations with the
traitor. The latter furnished them with letters to Stanley and
Parma, and with these they made their way out of the town at night
to the Spanish camp. They had an interview with the duke, and
promised to deliver the north water fort over to him, for which
service Redhead was to receive 1200 crowns and Grimeston 700 crowns,
and a commission in Stanley's regiment of traitors.

Stanley himself entertained them in his tent, and Parma presented
them with two gold chains. They then returned to Bergen and related
all that had taken place to Lord Willoughby. The matter was kept
a profound secret in the town, Francis Vere, who was in command of
the north fort, and a few others only being made acquainted with
what was going on.

On the appointed night, 22d of October, Grimeston went out alone,
Redhead's supposed share of the business being to open the gates
of the fort. When Grimeston arrived at Parma's camp he found that
the Spaniards had become suspicious. He was bound and placed in
charge of a Spanish captain, who was ordered to stab him at once
if there was any sign of treachery. It was a dark night; the tide
was out, for the land over which the Spaniards had to advance was
flooded at other times. The attacking column consisted of three
thousand men, including Stanley's regiment; and a number of knights
and nobles accompanied it as volunteers.

As they approached the forts--Grimeston in front closely guarded
by the Spanish captain--it was seen by the assailants that Redhead
had kept his word: the drawbridge across the moat was down and the
portcullis was up. Within the fort Lord Willoughby, Vere, and two
thousand men were waiting for them. When about fifty had crossed the
drawbridge the portcullis was suddenly let fall and the drawbridge
hauled up. As the portcullis thundered down Grimeston tripped up
the surprised Spaniard, and, leaping into the water, managed to
make his way to the foot of the walls. A discharge of musketry and
artillery from the fort killed a hundred and fifty of the attacking
party, while those who had crossed the drawbridge were all either
killed or taken prisoners. But the water in the moat was low. The
Spaniards gallantly waded across and attacked the palisades, but
were repulsed in their endeavour to climb them. While the fight was
going on the water in the moat was rising, and scores were washed
away and drowned as they attempted to return.

Parma continued the siege for some little time, but made no real
attempt to take the place after having been repulsed at the north
fort; and on the 12th of November broke up his camp and returned
to Brussels.

After the siege was over Lord Willoughby knighted twelve of
his principal officers, foremost among whom was Francis Vere, who
was now sent home with despatches by his general, and remained in
England until the end of January, when he was appointed sergeant
major general of the forces, a post of great responsibility and much
honour, by Lord Willoughby, with the full approval of the queen's
government. He was accompanied on his return by his brother Robert.

A month after Sir Francis Vere's return Lord Willoughby left
for England, and the whole burden of operations in the field fell
upon Vere. His first trouble arose from the mutinous conduct of
the garrison of Gertruydenberg. This was an important town on the
banks of the old Maas, and was strongly fortified, one side being
protected by the Maas while the river Douge swept round two other
sides of its walls. Its governor, Count Hohenlohe, had been unpopular,
the troops had received no pay, and there had been a partial mutiny
before the siege of Bergen op Zoom began. This was appeased, by
the appointment of Sir John Wingfield, Lord Willoughby's brother
in law, as its governor.

In the winter the discontent broke out again. The soldiers had been
most unjustly treated by the States, and there were long arrears
of pay, and at first Sir John Wingfield espoused the cause of the
men. Sir Francis Vere tried in vain to arrange matters. The Dutch
authorities would not pay up the arrears, the men would not return
to their duty until they did so, and at last became so exasperated
that they ceased to obey their governor and opened communications
with the enemy. Prince Maurice, who was now three and twenty years
old, and devoted to martial pursuits and the cause of his countrymen,
after consultation with Sir Francis Vere, laid siege to the town
and made a furious assault upon it on the water aide. But the Dutch
troops, although led by Count Solms and Count Philip of Nassau,
were repulsed with great loss. The prince then promised not only
a pardon, but that the demands of the garrison should be complied
with; but it was too late, and four days later Gertruydenberg was
delivered up by the mutineers to the Duke of Parma, the soldiers
being received into the Spanish service, while Wingfield and the
officers were permitted to retire.

The States were furious, as this was the third city commanded by
Englishmen that had been handed over to the enemy. The bad feeling
excited by the treachery of Sir William Stanley and Roland Yorke
at Deventer and Zutphen had died out after the gallant defence of
the English at Sluys, but now broke out again afresh, and charges
of treachery were brought not only against Wingfield but against
many other English officers, including Sir Francis Vere. The
queen, however, wrote so indignantly to the States that they had
to withdraw their charges against most of the English officers.

In May Lord Willoughby, who was still in London, resigned his command.
A number of old officers of distinction who might have laid claims
to succeed him, among them Sir John Norris, Sir Roger Williams,
Sir Thomas Wilford, Sir William Drury, Sir Thomas Baskerville, and
Sir John Burrough, were withdrawn from the Netherlands to serve in
France or Ireland, and no general in chief or lieutenant general was
appointed, Sir Francis Vere as sergeant major receiving authority
to command all soldiers already in the field or to be sent out during
the absence of the general and lieutenant general. His official
title was Her Majesty's Sergeant Major in the Field. The garrisons
in the towns were under the command of their own governors, and
those could supply troops for service in the field according to
their discretion.

The appointment of so young a man as Sir Francis Vere to a post
demanding not only military ability but great tact and diplomatic
power, was abundant proof of the high estimate formed of him
by the queen and her counsellors. The position was one of extreme
difficulty. He had to keep on good terms with the queen and her
government, with the government of the States, the English agent at
the Hague, Prince Maurice in command of the army of the Netherlands,
the English governors of the towns, and the officers or men of the
force under his own command. Fortunately Barneveldt, who at that
time was the most prominent man in the States, had a high opinion
of Vere. Sir Thomas Bodley, the queen's agent, had much confidence
in him, and acted with him most cordially, and Prince Maurice
entertained a great respect for him, consulted him habitually in
all military matters, and placed him in the position of marshal
of the camp of the army of the Netherlands, in addition to his own
command of the English portion of that army.

Vere's first undertaking was to lead a force of 12,000 men, of
whom half were English, to prevent Count Mansfelt from crossing
the Maas with an army of equal strength. Prince Maurice was present
in person as general in chief. Intrenchments were thrown up and
artillery planted; but just as Mansfelt was preparing to cross his
troops mutinied, and he was obliged to fall back.

In October, with 900 of his own troops and twelve companies of Dutch
horse, Sir Francis Vere succeeded in throwing a convoy of provisions
into the town of Rheinberg, which was besieged by a large force
of the enemy. As soon as he returned the States requested him to
endeavour to throw in another convoy, as Count Mansfelt was marching
to swell the force of the besiegers, and, after his arrival it
would be well nigh impossible to send further aid into the town.
Vere took with him 900 English and 900 Dutch infantry, and 800
Dutch cavalry. The enemy had possession of a fortified country
house called Loo, close to which lay a thick wood traversed only by
a narrow path, with close undergrowth and swampy ground on either
side. The enemy were in great force around Loo, and came out to
attack the expedition as it passed through the wood. Sending the
Dutch troops on first, Vere attacked the enemy vigorously with his
infantry and drove them back to the inclosure of Loo. As soon as
his whole force had crossed the wood, he halted them and ordered
them to form in line of battle facing the wood through which they
had just passed, and from which the enemy were now pouring out in
great force.

In order to give time to his troops to prepare for the action Vere
took half his English infantry and advanced against them. They
moved forward, and a stubborn fight took place between the pikemen.
Vere's horse was killed, and fell on him so that he could not
rise; but the English closed round him, and he was rescued with
no other harm than a bruised leg and several pike thrusts through
his clothes. While the conflict between the pikemen was going on
the English arquebusiers opened fire on the flank of the enemy,
and they began to fall back. Four times they rallied and charged
the English, but were at last broken and scattered through the wood.
The cavalry stationed there left their horses and fled through the
undergrowth. Pressing forward the little English force next fell
upon twenty-four companies of Neapolitan infantry, who were defeated
without difficulty. The four hundred and fifty Englishmen then
joined the main force, which marched triumphantly with their convoy
of provisions into Rheinberg, and the next morning fortunately turning
thick and foggy the force made its way back without interruption
by the enemy.

CHAPTER XI

IN SPAIN

Alone among the survivors of the great Spanish Armada, Geoffrey
Vickars saw the coast of Ireland fade away from sight without a
feeling of satisfaction or relief. His hope had been that the ship
would be wrecked on her progress down the coast. He knew not that
the wild Irish were slaying all whom the sea spared, and that
ignorant as they were of the English tongue, he would undoubtedly
have shared the fate of his Spanish companions. He thought only
of the risk of being drowned, and would have preferred taking this
to the certainty of a captivity perhaps for life in the Spanish
prisons. The part that he had played since he had been picked up
off Gravelines could not be sustained indefinitely. He might as
well spend his life in prison, where at least there would be some
faint hope of being exchanged, as wander about Spain all his life
as an imbecile beggar.

As soon, therefore, as he saw that the perils of the coast of
Ireland were passed, and that the vessel was likely to reach Spain
in safety, he determined that he would on reaching a port disclose
his real identity. There were on board several Scotch and Irish
volunteers, and he decided to throw himself upon the pity of one of
these rather than on that of the Spaniards. He did not think that
in any case his life was in danger. Had he been detected when
first picked up, or during the early part of the voyage, he would
doubtless have been thrown overboard without mercy; but now that
the passions of the combatants had subsided, and that he had been
so long among them, and had, as he believed, won the goodwill of
many by the assistance he had rendered to the sick and wounded, he
thought that there was little fear of his life being taken in cold
blood.

One of the Irish volunteers, Gerald Burke by name, had for a long
time been seriously ill, and Geoffrey had in many small ways shown
him kindness as he lay helpless on the deck, and he determined
finally to confide in him. Although still very weak, Burke was now
convalescent, and was sitting alone by the poop rail gazing upon
the coast of Spain with eager eyes, when Geoffrey, under the pretext
of coiling down a rope, approached him. The young man nodded kindly
to him.

"Our voyage is nearly over, my poor lad," he said in Spanish, "and
your troubles now will be worse than mine. You have given me many
a drink of water from your scanty supply, and I wish that I could
do something for you in return; but I know that you do not even
understand what I say to you."

"Would you give me an opportunity of speaking to you after nightfall,
Mr. Burke," Geoffrey said in English, "when no one will notice us
speaking?"

The Irishman gave a start of astonishment at hearing himself
addressed in English.

"My life is in your hands, sir; pray, do not betray me," Geoffrey
said rapidly as he went on coiling down the rope.

"I will be at this place an hour after nightfall," the young Irishman
replied when he recovered from his surprise. "Your secret will be
safe with me."

At the appointed time Geoffrey returned to the spot. The decks
were now deserted, for a drizzling rain was falling, and all save
those on duty had retired below, happy in the thought that on the
following morning they would be in port.

"Now, tell me who you are," the young Irishman began. "I thought you
were a Spanish sailor, one of those we picked up when the Spanish
galleon next to us foundered."

Geoffrey then told him how he had been knocked off an English ship
by the fall of a mast, had swum to the galleon and taken refuge
beneath her bowsprit until she sank, and how, when picked up and
carried on to the Spanish ship, he feigned to have lost his senses
in order to conceal his ignorance of Spanish.

"I knew," he said, "that were I recognized as English at the time
I should at once be killed, but I thought that if I could conceal
who I was for a time I should simply be sent to the galleys, where
I have heard that there are many English prisoners working."

"I think death would have been preferable to that lot," Mr. Burke
said.

"Yes, sir; but there is always the hope of escape or of exchange.
When you spoke kindly to me this afternoon I partly understood what
you said, for in this long time I have been on board I have come
to understand a little Spanish, and I thought that maybe you would
assist me in some way."

"I would gladly do so, though I regard Englishmen as the enemies
of my country; but in what way can I help you? I could furnish you
with a disguise, but your ignorance of Spanish would lead to your
detection immediately."

"I have been thinking it over, sir, and it seemed to me that
as there will be no objection to my landing tomorrow, thinking as
they do that I have lost my senses, I might join you after you once
got out of the town. I have some money in my waistbelt, and if you
would purchase some clothes for me I might then join you as your
servant as you ride along. At the next town you come to none would
know but that I had been in your service during the voyage, and
there would be nothing strange in you, an Irish gentleman, being
accompanied by an Irish servant who spoke but little Spanish.
I would serve you faithfully, sir, until perhaps some opportunity
might occur for my making my escape to England."

"Yes, I think that might be managed," the young Irishman said. "When
I land tomorrow I will buy some clothes suitable for a serving man.
I do not know the names of the hotels on shore, so you must watch
me when I land and see where I put up. Come there in the evening at
nine o'clock. I will issue out and give you the bundle of clothes,
and tell you at what hour in the morning I have arranged to start.
I will hire two horses; when they come round to the door, join me
in front of the hotel and busy yourself in packing my trunks on
the baggage mules. When you have done that, mount the second horse
and ride after me; the people who will go with us with the horses
will naturally suppose that you have landed with me. Should any of
our shipmates here see us start, it is not likely that they will
recognize you. If they do so, I need simply say that as you had shown
me such kindness on board ship I had resolved to take you with me
to Madrid in order to see if anything could be done to restore you
to reason. However, it is better that you should keep in the background
as much as possible. I will arrange to start at so early an hour
in the morning that none of those who may land with me from the
ship, and may put up at the same inn, are likely to be about."

The next morning the vessel entered port. They were soon surrounded
by boats full of people inquiring anxiously for news of other ships,
and for friends and acquaintances on board. Presently large boats
were sent off by the authorities, and the disembarkation of the sick
and the helpless began. This indeed included the greater portion
of the survivors, for there were but two or three score on board
who were capable of dragging themselves about, the rest being
completely prostrate by disease, exhaustion, hunger, and thirst.
Geoffrey was about to descend into one of the boats, when the officer
in command said roughly: "Remain on board and do your work, there
is no need for your going into the hospital." One of the ship's
officers, however, explained that the lad had altogether lost his
senses, and was unable either to understand when spoken to or to
reply to questions. Consequently he was permitted to take his place
in the boat.

As soon as he stepped ashore he wandered away among the crowd of
spectators. A woman, observing his wan face and feeble walk, called
him into her house, and set food and wine before him. He made a
hearty meal, but only shook his head when she addressed him, and
laughed childishly and muttered his thanks in Spanish when she
bestowed a dollar upon him as he left. He watched at the port while
boat load after boat load of sick came ashore, until at last one
containing the surviving officers and gentlemen with their baggage
reached the land. Then he kept Gerald Burke in sight until he
entered an inn, followed by two men carrying his baggage. Several
times during the day food and money were offered him, the inhabitants
being full of horror and pity at the sight of the famishing survivors
of the crew of the galleon.

At nine o'clock in the evening Geoffrey took up his station near
the door of the inn. A few minutes later Gerald Burke came out with
a bundle. "Here are the clothes," he said. "I have hired horses for
our journey to Madrid. They will be at the door at six o'clock in
the morning. I have arranged to travel by very short stages, for at
first neither you nor I could sit very long upon a horse; however,
I hope we shall soon gain strength as we go."

Taking the bundle, Geoffrey walked a short distance from the town
and lay down upon the ground under some trees. The night was a warm
one, and after the bitter cold they had suffered during the greater
part of the voyage, it felt almost sultry to him. At daybreak in
the morning he rose, put on the suit of clothes Gerald Burke had
provided, washed his face in a little stream, and proceeded to the
inn. He arrived there just as the clocks were striking six. A few
minutes later two men with two horses and four mules came up to
the door, and shortly afterwards Gerald Burke came out. Geoffrey at
once joined him; the servants of the inn brought out the baggage,
which was fastened by the muleteers on to two of the animals.
Gerald Burke mounted one of the horses and Geoffrey the other, and
at once rode on, the muleteers mounting the other two mules and
following with those carrying the baggage.

"That was well managed," Gerald Burke said as they rode out of the
town. "The muleteers can have no idea that you have but just joined
me, and there is little chance of any of my comrades on board ship
overtaking us, as all intend to stop for a few days to recruit
themselves before going on. If they did they would not be likely to
recognize you in your present attire, or to suspect that my Irish
servant is the crazy boy of the ship."

After riding at an easy pace for two hours, they halted under the
shade of some trees. Fruit, bread, and wine were produced from
a wallet on one of the mules, and they sat down and breakfasted.
After a halt of an hour they rode on until noon, when they again
halted until four in the afternoon, for the sun was extremely hot,
and both Gerald Burke and Geoffrey were so weak they scarce could
sit their horses. Two hours further riding took them to a large
village, where they put up at the inn. Geoffrey now fell into his
place as Mr. Burke's servant--saw to the baggage being taken
inside, and began for the first time to try his tongue at Spanish.
He got on better than he had expected; and as Mr. Burke spoke with
a good deal of foreign accent, it did not seem in any way singular
to the people of the inn that his servant should speak but little
of the language.

Quietly they journeyed on, doing but short distances for the first
three or four days, but as they gained strength pushing on faster,
and by the time they reached Madrid both were completely recovered
from the effects of their voyage. Madrid was in mourning, for there
was scarce a family but had lost relations in the Armada. Mr. Burke
at once took lodgings and installed Geoffrey as his servant. He
had many friends and acquaintances in the city, where he had been
residing for upwards of a year previous to the sailing of the
Armada.

For some weeks Geoffrey went out but little, spending his time in
reading Spanish books and mastering the language as much as possible.
He always conversed in that language with Mr. Burke, and at the
end of six weeks was able to talk Spanish with some fluency. He
now generally accompanied Mr. Burke if he went out, following him
in the streets and standing behind his chair when he dined abroad.
He was much amused at all he saw, making many acquaintances among
the lackeys of Mr. Burke's friends, dining with them downstairs after
the banquets were over, and often meeting them of an evening when
he had nothing to do, and going with them to places of entertainment.

In this way his knowledge of Spanish improved rapidly, and although
he still spoke with an accent he could pass well as one who had
been for some years in the country. He was now perfectly at ease
with the Spanish gentlemen of Mr. Burke's acquaintance. It was
only when Irish and Scotch friends called upon his master that he
feared awkward questions, and upon these occasions he showed himself
as little as possible. When alone with Gerald Burke the latter
always addressed Geoffrey as a friend rather than as a servant, and
made no secret with him as to his position and means. He had been
concerned in a rising in Ireland, and had fled the country, bringing
with him a fair amount of resources. Believing that the Armada was
certain to be crowned with success, and that he should ere long be
restored to his estates in Ireland, he had, upon his first coming
to Spain, spent his money freely. His outfit for the expedition
had made a large inroad upon his store, and his resources were now
nearly at an end.

"What is one to do, Geoffrey? I don't want to take a commission in
Philip's army, though my friends could obtain one for me at once;
but I have no desire to spend the rest of my life in the Netherlands
storming the towns of the Dutch burghers."

"Or rather trying to storm them," Geoffrey said, smiling; "there
have not been many towns taken of late years."

"Nor should I greatly prefer to be campaigning in France," Gerald
went on, paying no attention to the interruption. "I have no love
either for Dutch Calvinists or French Huguenots; but I have no
desire either to be cutting their throats or for them to be cutting
mine. I should like a snug berth under the crown here or at Cadiz,
or at Seville; but I see no chance whatever of my obtaining one.
I cannot take up the trade of a footpad, though disbanded soldiers
turned robbers are common enough in Spain. What is to be done?"

"If I am not mistaken," Geoffrey said with a smile, "your mind is
already made up. It is not quite by accident that you are in the
gardens of the Retiro every evening, and that a few words are always
exchanged with a certain young lady as she passes with her duenna."

"Oh! you have observed that," Gerald Burke replied with a laugh.
"Your eyes are sharper than I gave you credit for, Master Geoffrey.
Yes, that would set me on my legs without doubt, for Donna Inez
is the only daughter and heiress of the Marquis of Ribaldo; but
you see there is a father in the case, and if that father had the
slightest idea that plain Gerald Burke was lifting his eyes to his
daughter it would not be many hours before Gerald Burke had several
inches of steel in his body."

"That I can imagine," Geoffrey said, "since it is, as I learn from
my acquaintances among the lackeys, a matter of common talk that
the marquis intends to marry her to the son of the Duke of Sottomayor."

"Inez hates him," Gerald Burke said. "It is just like my ill luck,
that instead of being drowned as most of the others were, he has
had the luck to get safely back again. However, he is still ill,
and likely to be so for some time. He was not so accustomed to
starving as some of us, and he suffered accordingly. He is down at
his estates near Seville."

"But what do you think of doing?" Geoffrey asked.

"That is just what I am asking you."

"It seems to me, certainly," Geoffrey went on, "that unless you
really mean to run off with the young lady--for I suppose there
is no chance in the world of your marrying her in any other way--it
will be better both for you and her that you should avoid for
the future these meetings in the gardens or elsewhere, and cast your
thoughts in some other direction for the bettering of your fortunes."

"That is most sage advice, Geoffrey," the young Irishman laughed,
"and worthy of my father confessor; but it is not so easy to follow.
In the first place, I must tell you that I do not regard Inez as in
any way a step to fortune, but rather as a step towards a dungeon.
It would be vastly better for us both if she were the daughter of
some poor hidalgo like myself. I could settle down then with her,
and plant vines and make wine, and sell what I don't drink myself.
As it is, I have the chance of being put out of the way if it is
discovered that Inez and I are fond of each other; and in the next
place, if we do marry I shall have to get her safely out of the
kingdom, or else she will have to pass the rest of her life in a
convent, and I the rest of mine in a prison or in the galleys; that
is if I am not killed as soon as caught, which is by far the most
likely result. Obnoxious sons in law do not live long in Spain. So
you see, Geoffrey, the prospect is a bad one altogether; and if it
were not that I dearly love Inez, and that I am sure she will be
unhappy with Philip of Sottomayor, I would give the whole thing
up, and make love to the daughter of some comfortable citizen who
would give me a corner of his house and a seat at his table for
the rest of my days."

"But, seriously--" Geoffrey began.

"Well, seriously, Geoffrey, my intention is to run away with Inez
if it can be managed; but how it is to be managed at present I have
not the faintest idea. To begin with, the daughter of a Spanish
grandee is always kept in a very strong cage closely guarded, and
it needs a very large golden key to open it. Now, as you are aware,
gold is a very scarce commodity with me. Then, after getting her
out, a lavish expenditure would be needed for our flight. We should
have to make our way to the sea coast, to do all sorts of things
to throw dust into the eyes of our pursuers, and to get a passage
to some place beyond the domains of Philip, which means either to
France, England, or the Netherlands. Beyond all this will be the
question of future subsistence until, if ever, the marquis makes up
his mind to forgive his daughter and take her to his heart again,
a contingency, in my opinion, likely to be extremely remote."

"And what does the Lady Inez say to it all?" Geoffrey asked.

"The Lady Inez has had small opportunity of saying anything on the
subject, Geoffrey. Here in Spain there are mighty few opportunities
for courtship. With us at home these matters are easy enough, and
there is no lack of opportunity for pleading your suit and winning
a girl's heart if it is to be won; but here in Spain matters are
altogether different, and an unmarried girl is looked after as
sharply as if she was certain to get into some mischief or other
the instant she had an opportunity. She is never suffered to be
for a moment alone with a man; out of doors or in she has always a
duenna by her side; and as to a private chat, the thing is simply
impossible."

"Then how do you manage to make love?" Geoffrey asked.

"Well, a very little goes a long way in Spain. The manner of a bow,
the wave of a fan, the dropping of a glove or flower, the touch
of a hand in a crowded room--each of these things go as far as
a month's open love making in Ireland."

"Then how did you manage with the duenna so as to be able to speak
to her in the gardens?"

"Well, in the first place, I made myself very attentive to the
duenna; in the second place, the old lady is devout, and you know
Ireland is the land of saints, and I presented her with an amulet
containing a paring of the nail of St. Patrick."

Geoffrey burst into a laugh, in which the Irishman joined.

"Well, if it was not really St. Patrick's," the latter went on,
"it came from Ireland anyhow, which is the next best thing. Then
in the third place, the old lady is very fond of Inez; and although
she is as strict as a dragon, Inez coaxed her into the belief that
there could not be any harm in our exchanging a few words when she
was close by all the time to hear what was said. Now, I think you
know as much as I do about the matter, Geoffrey. You will understand
that a few notes have been exchanged, and that Inez loves me.
Beyond that everything is vague and uncertain, and I have not the
slightest idea what will come of it."

Some weeks passed and nothing was done. The meetings between Gerald
Burke and Inez in the Gardens of the Retiro had ceased a day or two
afterwards, the duenna having positively refused to allow them to
continue, threatening Inez to inform her father of them unless she
gave them up.

Gerald Burke's funds dwindled rapidly, although he and Geoffrey
lived in the very closest way.

"What in the world is to be done, Geoffrey? I have only got twenty
dollars left, which at the outside will pay for our lodgings and
food for another month. For the life of me I cannot see what is to
be done when that is gone, unless we take to the road."

Geoffrey shook his head. "As far as I am concerned," he said, "as
we are at war with Spain, it would be fair if I met a Spanish ship
at sea to capture and plunder it, but I am afraid the laws of war
do not justify private plunder. I should be perfectly ready to go
out and take service in a vineyard, or to earn my living in any
way if it could be managed."

"I would rob a cardinal if I had the chance," Gerald Burke said,
"and if I ever got rich would restore his money four fold and
so obtain absolution; only, unfortunately, I do not see my way to
robbing a cardinal. As to digging in the fields, Geoffrey, I would
rather hang myself at once. I am constitutionally averse to labour,
and if one once took to that sort of thing there would be an end
to everything."

"It is still open to you," Geoffrey said, "to get your friends to
obtain a commission for you."

"I could do that," Gerald said moodily, "but of all things that is
what I should most hate."

"You might make your peace with the English government and get some
of your estates back again."

"That I will not do to feed myself," Gerald Burke said firmly. "I
have thought that if I ever carry off Inez I might for her sake do
so, for I own that now all hope of help from Spain is at an end,
our cause in Ireland is lost, and it is no use going on struggling
against the inevitable; but I am not going to sue the English
government as a beggar for myself. No doubt I could borrow small
sums from Irishmen and Scotchmen here, and hold on for a few months;
but most of them are well nigh as poor as I am myself, and I would
not ask them. Besides, there would be no chance of my repaying them;
and, if I am to rob anyone, I would rather plunder these rich dons
than my own countrymen."

"Of one thing I am resolved," Geoffrey said, "I will not live at
your expense any longer, Gerald. I can speak Spanish very fairly
now, and can either take service in some Spanish family or, as I
said, get work in the field."

Gerald laughed. "My dear Geoffrey, the extra expenses caused by
you last week were, as far as I can calculate, one penny for bread
and as much for fruit; the rest of your living was obtained at the
expense of my friends."

"At any rate," Geoffrey said smiling, "I insist that my money be
now thrown into the common fund. I have offered it several times
before, but you always said we had best keep it for emergency. I
think the emergency has come now, and these ten English pounds in
my belt will enable us to take some step or other. The question is,
what step? They might last us, living as we do, for some three or
four months, but at the end of that time we should be absolutely
penniless; therefore now is the time, while we have still a small
stock in hand, to decide upon something."

"But what are we to decide upon?" Gerald Burke asked helplessly.

"I have been thinking it over a great deal," Geoffrey said, "and
my idea is that we had best go to Cadiz or some other large port.
Although Spain is at war both with England and the Netherlands,
trade still goes on in private ships, and both Dutch and English
vessels carry on commerce with Spain; therefore it seems to me
that there must be merchants in Cadiz who would be ready to give
employment to men capable of speaking and writing both in Spanish
and English, and in my case to a certain extent in Dutch. From
there, too, there might be a chance of getting a passage to England
or Holland. If we found that impossible owing to the vessels being
too carefully searched before sailing, we might at the worst take
passage as sailors on board a Spanish ship bound for the Indies,
and take our chance of escape or capture there or on the voyage.
That, at least, is what I planned for myself."

"I think your idea is a good one, Geoffrey. At any rate to Cadiz we
will go. I don't know about the mercantile business or going as a
sailor, but I could get a commission from the governor there as well
as here in Madrid; but at any rate I will go. Donna Inez was taken
last week by her father to some estates he has somewhere between
Seville and Cadiz, in order, I suppose, that he may be nearer Don
Philip, who is, I hear, at last recovering from his long illness.
I do not know that there is the slightest use in seeing her again,
but I will do so if it be possible; and if by a miracle I could
succeed in carrying her off, Cadiz would be a more likely place to
escape from than anywhere.

"Yes, I know. You think the idea is a mad one, but you have never
been in love yet. When you are you will know that lovers do not
believe in the word 'impossible.' At any rate, I mean to give Inez
the chance of determining her own fate. If she is ready to risk
everything rather than marry Don Philip, I am ready to share the
risk whatever it may be."

Accordingly on the following day Gerald Burke disposed of the
greater part of his wardrobe and belongings, purchased two ponies
for a few crowns, and he and Geoffrey, with a solitary suit of
clothes in a wallet fastened behind the saddle, started for their
journey to Cadiz. They mounted outside the city, for Gerald shrank
from meeting any acquaintances upon such a sorry steed as he had
purchased; but once on their way his spirits rose. He laughed and
chatted gaily, and spoke of the future as if all difficulties were
cleared away. The ponies, although rough animals, were strong and
sturdy, and carried their riders at a good pace. Sometimes they
travelled alone, sometimes jogged along with parties whom they
overtook by the way, or who had slept in the same posadas or inns
at which they had put up for the night.

Most of these inns were very rough, and, to Geoffrey, astonishingly
dirty. The food consisted generally of bread and a miscellaneous
olio or stew from a great pot constantly simmering over the fire,
the flavour, whatever it might be, being entirely overpowered
by that of the oil and garlic that were the most marked of its
constituents. Beds were wholly unknown at these places, the guests
simply wrapping themselves in their cloaks and lying down on the
floor, although in a few exceptional cases bundles of rushes were
strewn about to form a common bed.

But the travelling was delightful. It was now late in the autumn,
and when they were once past the dreary district of La Mancha, and
had descended to the rich plains of Cordova, the vintage was in
full progress and the harvest everywhere being garnered in. Their
midday meal consisted of bread and fruit, costing but the smallest
coin, and eaten by the wayside in the shade of a clump of trees.
They heard many tales on their way down of the bands of robbers
who infested the road, but having taken the precaution of having
the doubloons for which they had exchanged Geoffrey's English gold
sewn up in their boots, they had no fear of encountering these gentry,
having nothing to lose save their wallets and the few dollars they
had kept out for the expenses of their journey. The few jewels that
Gerald Burke retained were sewn up in the stuffing of his saddle.

After ten days' travel they reached Seville, where they stayed a
couple of days, and where the wealth and splendour of the buildings
surprised Geoffrey, who had not visited Antwerp or any of the great
commercial centres of the Netherlands.

"It is a strange taste of the Spanish kings," he observed to Gerald
Burke, "to plant their capital at Madrid in the centre of a barren
country, when they might make such a splendid city as this their
capital. I could see no charms whatever in Madrid. The climate
was detestable, with its hot sun and bitter cold winds. Here the
temperature is delightful; the air is soft and balmy, the country
round is a garden, and there is a cathedral worthy of a capital."

"It seems a strange taste," Gerald agreed; "but I believe that
when Madrid was first planted it stood in the midst of extensive
forests, and that it was merely a hunting residence for the king."

"Then, when the forests went I would have gone too," Geoffrey said.
"Madrid has not even a river worthy of the name, and has no single
point to recommend it, as far as I can see, for the capital of a
great empire. If I were a Spaniard I should certainly take up my
residence in Seville."

Upon the following morning they again started, joining, before they
had ridden many miles, a party of three merchants travelling with
their servants to Cadiz. The merchants looked a little suspiciously
at first at the two young men upon their tough steeds; but as soon
as they discovered from their first salutations that they were
foreigners, they became more cordial, and welcomed this accession
of strength to their party, for the carrying of weapons was universal,
and the portion of the road between Seville and Cadiz particularly
unsafe, as it was traversed by so many merchants and wealthy
people. The conversation speedily turned to the disturbed state of
the roads.

"I do not think," one of the merchants said, "that any ordinary
band of robbers would dare attack us," and he looked round with
satisfaction at the six armed servants who rode behind them.

"It all depends," Gerald Burke said, with a sly wink at Geoffrey,
"upon what value the robbers may place upon the valour of your
servants. As a rule serving men are very chary of their skins, and I
should imagine that the robbers must be pretty well aware of that
fact. Most of them are disbanded soldiers or deserters, and I should
say that four of them are more than a match for your six servants.
I would wager that your men would make but a very poor show of it
if it came to fighting."

"But there are our three selves and you two gentlemen," the merchant
said in a tone of disquiet.

"Well," Gerald rejoined, "I own that from your appearance I should
not think, worshipful sir, that fighting was altogether in your line.
Now, my servant, young as he is, has taken part in much fighting
in the Netherlands, and I myself have had some experience with
my sword; but if we were attacked by robbers we should naturally
stand neutral. Having nothing to defend, and having no inclination
whatever to get our throats cut in protecting the property of others,
I think that you will see for yourselves that that is reasonable.
We are soldiers of fortune, ready to venture our lives in a good
service, and for good pay, but mightily disinclined to throw them
away for the mere love of fighting."

CHAPTER XII

RECRUITING THEIR FUNDS

As soon as Gerald Burke began conversing with the merchants,
Geoffrey fell back and took his place among their servants, with
whom he at once entered into conversation. To amuse himself he
continued in the same strain that he had heard Gerald adopt towards
the merchants, and spoke in terms of apprehension of the dangers
of the journey, and of the rough treatment that had befallen those
who had ventured to offer opposition to the robbers. He was not
long in discovering, by the anxious glances they cast round them,
and by the manner of their questions, that some at least of the
party were not to be relied upon in case of an encounter.

He was rather surprised at Gerald remaining so long in company with
the merchants, for their pace was a slow one, as they were followed
by eight heavily laden mules, driven by two muleteers, and it would
have been much pleasanter, he thought, to have trotted on at their
usual pace. About midday, as they were passing along the edge of
a thick wood, a party of men suddenly sprang out and ordered them
to halt. Geoffrey shouted to the men with him to come on, and
drawing his sword dashed forward.

Two of the men only followed him. The others hesitated, until
a shot from a musket knocked off one of their hats, whereupon the
man and his comrades turned their horses' heads and rode off at
full speed. The merchants had drawn their swords, and stood on the
defensive, and Geoffrey on reaching them was surprised to find that
Gerald Burke was sitting quietly on his horse without any apparent
intention of taking part in the fight.

"Put up your sword, Geoffrey," he said calmly; "this affair is no
business of ours. We have nothing to lose, and it is no business
of ours to defend the money bags of these gentlemen."

The robbers, eight in number, now rushed up. One of the merchants,
glancing round, saw that two of their men only had come up to
their assistance. The muleteers, who were probably in league with
the robbers, had fled, leaving their animals standing in the road.
The prospect seemed desperate. One of the merchants was an elderly
man, the others were well on middle age. The mules were laden with
valuable goods, and they had with them a considerable sum of money
for making purchases at Cadiz. It was no time for hesitation.

"We will give you five hundred crowns if you will both aid us to
beat off these robbers."

"It is a bargain," Gerald replied. "Now, Geoffrey, have at these
fellows!"

Leaping from their ponies they ranged themselves by the merchants
just as the robbers attacked them. Had it not been for their aid
the combat would have been a short one; for although determined to
defend their property to the last, the traders had neither strength
nor skill at arms. One was unhorsed at the first blow, and another
wounded; but the two servants, who had also dismounted, fought
sturdily, and Gerald and Geoffrey each disposed of a man before
the robbers, who had not reckoned upon their interference, were
prepared to resist their attack.

The fight did not last many minutes. The traders did their best,
and although by no means formidable opponents, distracted the
attention of the robbers, who were startled by the fall of two of
their party. Geoffrey received a sharp cut on the head, but at the
same moment ran his opponent through the body, while Gerald Burke
cut down the man opposed to him. The other four robbers, seeing
they were now outnumbered, at once took to their heels.

"By St. Jago!" one of the traders said, "you are stout fighters,
young men, and have won your fee well. Methought we should have
lost our lives as well as our goods, and I doubt not we should have
done so had you not ranged yourselves with us. Now, let us bandage
up our wounds, for we have all received more or less hurt."

When the wounds, some of which were serious, were attended to, the
fallen robbers were examined. Three of them were dead; but the man
last cut down by Gerald Burke seemed likely to recover.

"Shall we hang him upon a tree as a warning to these knaves, or
shall we take him with us to the next town and give him in charge
of the authorities there?" one of the traders asked.

"If I were you I would do neither," Gerald said, "but would let him
go free if he will tell you the truth about this attack. It will
be just as well for you to get to the bottom of this affair, and
find out whether it is a chance meeting, or whether any of your
own people have been in league with him."

"That is a good idea," the trader agreed, "and I will carry it
out," and going up to the man, who had now recovered his senses,
he said to him sternly: "We have made up our minds to hang you;
but you may save your life if you will tell us how you came to set
upon us. Speak the truth and you shall go free, otherwise we will
finish with you without delay."

The robber, seeing an unexpected chance of escape from punishment, at
once said that the captain of their band, who was the man Geoffrey
had last run through, came out from Seville the evening before, and
told him that one Juan Campos, with whom he had long had intimate
relations, and who was clerk to a rich trader, had, upon promise that
he should receive one fifth of the booty taken, informed him that
his master with two other merchants was starting on the following
morning for Cadiz with a very valuable lot of goods, and twenty-five
thousand crowns, which they intended to lay out in the purchase of
goods brought by some galleons that had just arrived from the Indies.
He had arranged to bribe his master's two servants to ride away
when they attacked the gang, and also to settle with the muleteers
so that they should take no part in the affair. They had reckoned
that the flight of two of the servants would probably affect the
others, and had therefore expected the rich booty to fall into
their hands without the trouble of striking a blow for it.

"It is well we followed your suggestion," one of the traders said
to Gerald. "I had no suspicion of the honesty of my clerk, and
had we not made this discovery he would doubtless have played me a
similar trick upon some other occasion. I will ride back at once,
friends, for if he hears of the failure of the attack he may take
the alarm and make off with all he can lay his hands upon. Our
venture was to be in common. I will leave it to you to carry it
out, and return and dismiss Campos and the two rascally servants."
The three traders went apart and consulted together. Presently the
eldest of the party returned to the young men.

"We have another five days' journey before us," he said, "and but
two servants upon whom we can place any reliance. We have evidence
of the unsafety of the roads, and, as you have heard, we have a
large sum of money with us. You have already more than earned the
reward I offered you, and my friends have agreed with me that if
you will continue to journey with us as far as Cadiz, and to give
us the aid of your valour should we be again attacked, we will make
the five hundred crowns a thousand. It is a large sum, but we have
well nigh all our fortunes at stake, and we feel that we owe you
our lives as well as the saving of our money."

"We could desire nothing better," Gerald replied, "and will answer
with our lives that your goods and money shall arrive safely at
Cadiz."

The traders then called up their two serving men, and told them
that on their arrival at Cadiz they would present them each with a
hundred crowns for having so stoutly done their duty. The employer
of the treacherous clerk then turned his horse's head and rode back
towards Seville, while the others prepared to proceed on their way.
The two muleteers had now come out from among the bushes, and were
busy refastening the bales on the mules, the ropes having become
loosened in the struggles of the animals while the fight was going
on. The merchants had decided to say nothing to the men as to the
discovery that they were in league with the robbers.

"Half these fellows are in alliance with these bands, which are a
scourge to the country," one of the traders said. "If we were to
inform the authorities at the next town, we should, in the first
place, be blamed for letting the wounded man escape, and secondly
we might be detained for days while investigations are going on.
In this country the next worse thing to being a prisoner is to be
a complainant. Law is a luxury in which the wealthy and idle can
alone afford to indulge."

As soon, therefore, as the baggage was readjusted the party proceeded
on their way.

"What do you think of that, Geoffrey?" Gerald Burke asked as he
rode for a short distance by the side of his supposed servant.

"It is magnificent," Geoffrey replied; "and it seems to me that the
real road to wealth in Spain is to hire yourself out as a guard to
travellers."

"Ah, you would not get much if you made your bargain beforehand.
It is only at a moment of urgent danger that fear will open purse
strings widely. Had we bargained beforehand with these traders we
might have thought ourselves lucky if we had got ten crowns apiece
as the price of our escort to Cadiz, and indeed we should have been
only too glad if last night such an offer had been made to us; but
when a man sees that his property and life are really in danger he
does not stop to haggle, but is content to give a handsome percentage
of what is risked for aid to save the rest."

"Well, thank goodness, our money trouble is at an end," Geoffrey
said; "and it will be a long time before we need have any anxiety
on that score."

"Things certainly look better," Gerald said laughing; "and if Inez
consents to make a runaway match of it with me I sha'n't have to
ask her to pay the expenses."

Cadiz was reached without further adventure. The merchants kept
their agreement honourably, and handed over a heavy bag containing
a thousand crowns to Gerald on their arrival at that city. They
had upon the road inquired of him the nature of his business there.
He had told them that he was at present undecided whether to enter
the army, in which some friends of his had offered to obtain him
a commission, or to join in an adventure to the Indies. They had
told him they were acquainted with several merchants at Cadiz who
traded both with the east and west, and that they would introduce
him to them as a gentleman of spirit and courage, whom they might
employ with advantage upon such ventures; and this promise after
their arrival there they carried out.

"Now, Geoffrey," Gerald said as they sat together that evening at
a comfortable inn, "we must talk over matters here. We have five
hundred crowns apiece, and need not trouble any longer as to how
we are to support life. Your great object, of course, is to get out
of this country somehow, and to make your way back to England. My
first is to see Inez and find out whether she will follow my fortunes
or remain to become some day Marchesa of Sottomayor. If she adopts
the former alternative I have to arrange some plan to carry her off
and to get out of the country, an operation in which I foresee no
little difficulty. Of course if we are caught my life is forfeited,
there is no question about that. The question for us to consider
is how we are to set about to carry out our respective plans."

"We need only consider your plan as far as I can see," Geoffrey
said. "Of course I shall do what I can to assist you, and if you
manage to get off safely with the young lady I shall escape at the
same time."

"Not at all," Burke said; "you have only to wait here quietly
until you see an opportunity. I will go with you tomorrow to the
merchants I was introduced to today, and say that I am going away
for a time and shall be obliged if they will make you useful in any
way until I return. In that way you will have a sort of established
position here, and can wait until you see a chance of smuggling
yourself on board some English or Dutch vessel. Mine is a very
different affair. I may talk lightly of it, but I am perfectly
aware that I run a tremendous risk, and that the chances are very
strongly against me."

"Whatever the chances are," Geoffrey said quietly, "I shall share
them with you. Your kindness has saved me from what at best might
have been imprisonment for life, and not improbably would have been
torture and death at the hands of the Inquisition, and I am certainly
not going to withdraw myself from you now when you are entering
upon what is undoubtedly a very dangerous adventure. If we escape
from Spain we escape together; if not, whatever fate befalls you
I am ready to risk."

"Very well; so be it, Geoffrey," Gerald Burke said, holding out his
hand to him. "If your mind is made up I will not argue the question
with you, and indeed I value your companionship and aid too highly
to try to shake your determination. Let us then at once talk over
what is now our joint enterprise. Ribaldo estate lies about halfway
between this and Seville, and we passed within a few miles of it
as we came hither. The first thing, of course, will be to procure
some sort of disguise in which I can see Inez and have a talk with
her. Now, it seems to me, for I have been thinking the matter over
in every way as we rode, that the only disguise in which this would
be possible would be that of a priest or monk."

Geoffrey laughed aloud. "You would in the first place have to shave
off your moustachios, Gerald, and I fear that even after you had
done so there would be nothing venerable in your appearance; and
whatever the mission with which you might pretend to charge yourself,
your chances of obtaining a private interview with the lady would
be slight."

"I am afraid that I should lack the odour of sanctity, Geoffrey;
but what else can one do? Think it over, man. The way in which you
played the idiot when you were picked out of the water shows that
you are quick at contriving a plan."

"That was a simple business in comparison to this," Geoffrey
replied. "However, you are not pressed for time, and I will think
it over tonight and may light upon some possible scheme, for I own
that at present I have not the least idea how the matter is to be
managed."

As in the morning there were several other travellers taking
breakfast in the same room, the conversation was not renewed until
Gerald Burke strolled out, followed at a respectful distance by
Geoffrey, who still passed as his servant, and reached a quiet spot
on the ramparts. Here Geoffrey joined him, and they stood for some
minutes looking over the sea.

"What a magnificent position for a city!" Geoffrey said at last.
"Standing on this rocky tongue of land jutting out at the entrance
to this splendid bay it ought to be impregnable, since it can only
be attacked on the side facing that sandy isthmus. What a number
of ships are lying up the bay, and what a busy scene it is with the
boats passing and repassing! Though they must be two miles away I
fancy I can hear the shouts of the sailors."

"Yes, it is all very fine," Gerald said; "but I have seen it
several times before. Still, I can make allowances for you. Do you
see that group of small ships a mile beyond the others? Those are
the English and Dutchmen. They are allowed to trade, but as you see
they are kept apart, and there are three war galleys lying close
to them. No one is allowed to land, and every boat going off
is strictly examined, and all those who go on board have to show
their permits from the governor to trade; so, you see, the chance
of getting on board one of them is slight indeed. Higher up the
bay lies Puerto de Santa Maria, where a great trade is carried on,
and much wine shipped; though more comes from Jeres, which lies up
the river. You know we passed through it on our way here.

"Yes, this is a splendid position for trade, and I suppose the
commerce carried on here is larger than in any port in Europe;
though Antwerp ranked as first until the troubles began in the
Netherlands. But this ought to be first. It has all the trade of the
Atlantic seaboard, and standing at the mouth of the Mediterranean
commands that also; while all the wealth of the New World pours in
here. That is great already; there is no saying what it will be in
the future, while some day the trade from the far East should flow
in here also by vessels trading round the south of Africa.

"Cadiz has but one fault: the space on which it stands is too small
for a great city. You see how close the houses stand together,
and how narrow are the streets. It cannot spread without extending
beyond the rock over the sands, and then its strength would be gone,
and it would be open to capture by an enterprising enemy having
command of the sea. There now, having indulged your humour, let
us return to more important matters. Have you thought over what we
were talking about last night?"

"I have certainly thought it over," Geoffrey said; "but I do not
know that thinking has resulted in much. The only plan that occurs
to me as being at all possible is this. You were talking in joke
at Madrid of turning robber. Would it be possible, think you, to
get together a small band of men to aid you in carrying off the
young lady, either from the grounds of her father's house or while
journeying on the road? You could then have your talk with her.
If you find her willing to fly with you, you could leave the men
you have engaged and journey across the country in some sort of
disguise to a port. If she objected, you could conduct her back to
the neighbourhood of the house and allow her to return. There is
one difficulty: you must, of course, be prepared with a priest, so
that you can be married at once if she consents to accompany you."

Gerald Burke was silent for some time. "The scheme seems a possible
one," he said at last; "it is the question of the priest that bothers
me. You know, both in Seville and Cadiz there are Irish colleges,
and at both places there are several priests whom I knew before they
entered the Church, and who would, I am sure, perform the service
for me on any ordinary occasion; but it is a different thing asking
them to take a share in such a business as this, for they would
render themselves liable to all sorts of penalties and punishments
from their superiors. However, the difficulty must be got over
somehow, and at any rate the plan seems to promise better than
anything I had thought of. The first difficulty is how to get the
ruffians for such a business. I cannot go up to the first beetle
browed knave I meet in the street and say to him, 'Are you disposed
to aid me in the abduction of a lady?'"

"No," Geoffrey laughed; "but fortunately you have an intermediary
ready at hand."

"How so?" Gerald exclaimed in surprise. "Why, how on earth can you
have an acquaintance with any ruffians in Cadiz?"

"Not a very intimate acquaintance, Gerald; but if you take the
trouble to go into the courtyard of the inn when we get back you
will see one of those rascally muleteers who went in league with
the robbers who attacked us on the way. He was in conversation when
we came out with a man who breakfasted with us, and was probably
bargaining for a load for his mules back to Seville. I have no
doubt that through him you might put yourself into communication
with half the cutthroats of the town."

"That is a capital idea, Geoffrey, and I will have a talk with the
man as soon as we get back; for if he is not still there, I am sure
to be able to learn from some of the men about the stables where
to find him."

"You must go very carefully to work, Gerald," Geoffrey said. "It
would never do to let any of the fellows know the exact object for
which you engaged them, for they might be sure of getting a far
larger sum from the marquis for divulging your plans to carry off
his daughter than you could afford to pay them for their services."

"I quite see that, and will be careful."

On their return to the inn Gerald Burke at once made inquiries as
to the muleteer, and learned that he would probably return in an
hour to see if a bargain could be made with a trader for the hire
of his mules back to Seville. Gerald waited about until the man
came. "I want to have a talk with you, my friend," he said.

The muleteer looked at him with a suspicious eye. "I am busy," he
said in a surly tone; "I have no time to waste."

"But it would not be wasting it if it were to lead to your putting
a dozen crowns in your pocket."

"Oh, if it is to lead to that, senor, I can spare an hour, for I
don't think that anything is likely to come out of the job I came
here to try to arrange."

"We will walk away to a quieter place," Gerald said. "There are
too many people about here for us to talk comfortably. The ramparts
are but two or three minutes' walk; we can talk there without
interruption."

When they arrived upon the ramparts Gerald commenced the conversation.

"I think you were foolish, my friend, not to have taken us into
your confidence the other day before that little affair. You could
have made an opportunity well enough. We stopped to luncheon; if
you had drawn me aside, and told me frankly that some friends of
yours were about to make an attack upon the traders, and that you
would guarantee that they would make it worth my while--"

"What do you mean by saying my friends, or that I had any knowledge
of the affair beforehand?" the man asked furiously.

"I say so," Gerald replied, "because I had it on excellent authority.
The wounded robber made a clean breast of the whole affair, and of
your share in it, as well as that of the rascally clerk of one of
the traders. If it had not been for me the merchants would have
handed you over to the magistrates at the place where we stopped
that night; but I dissuaded them, upon the ground that they would
have to attend as witnesses against you, and that it was not
worth their while to lose valuable time merely for the pleasure of
seeing you hung. However, all this is beside the question. What I
was saying was, it is a pity you did not say to me frankly: 'Your
presence here is inopportune; but if you will stand apart if any
unexpected affair takes place, you will get say two thousand crowns
out of the twenty-five thousand my friends are going to capture.'
Had you done that, you see, things might have turned out differently."

"I did not know," the muleteer stammered.

"No, you did not know for certain, of course, that I was a soldier
of fortune; but if you had been sharp you might have guessed it.
However, it is too late for that now. Now, what I wanted to ask
you was if you could get me half a dozen of your friends to take
service under me in a little adventure I have to carry out. They
will be well paid, and I do not suppose they will have much trouble
over it."

"And what would you pay me, caballero?" the muleteer asked humbly;
for he had been greatly impressed with the valour displayed by the
young Irishman and his servant in the fray, and thought that he
intended to get together a company for adventures on the road, in
which case he might be able to have some profitable dealings with
him in the future.

"I will give you twenty crowns," Gerald replied; "and considering
that you owe your life to my interposition, I think that you ought
not to haggle about terms."

"The party who attacked us," the muleteer said, "lost their captain
and several of their comrades in that fray, and would I doubt not
gladly enter into your service, seeing that they have received such
proof of your worship's valour."

"Where could I see them?" Gerald asked.

"I think that they will be now in Jeres, if that would suit you,
senor; but if not I could doubtless find a party of men in this
town equally ready for your business."

"Jeres will do very well for me," Gerald said; "I shall be travelling
that way and will put up at the Fonda where we stopped as we came
through. When are you starting?"

"It depends whether I make my bargain with a man at your hotel,"
the muleteer replied; "and this I doubt not I shall do, for with
the twenty crowns your honour is going to give me I shall not stand
out for terms. He is travelling with clothes from Flanders, and if
your worship thought--"

"No," Gerald said. "I do not wish to undertake any adventures of
that sort until I have a band properly organized, and have arranged
hiding places and methods of getting rid of the booty. I will go
back with you to the inn, and if you strike your bargain you can
tell me as you pass out of the gate what evening you will meet me
at Jeres."

On arriving at the inn Gerald lounged at the gate of the courtyard
until the muleteer came out.

"I will meet your worship on the fifth night from this at Jeres."

"Very well; here are five crowns as an earnest on our bargain. If
you carry it out well I shall very likely forget to deduct them
from the twenty I promised you. Do not be surprised if you find me
somewhat changed in appearance when you meet me there."

At the appointed time the muleteer with his train of animals
entered the courtyards of the Fonda at Jeres. Gerald was standing
on the steps of the inn. He had altered the fashion of his hair,
had fastened on large bushy eyebrows which he had obtained from a
skilful perruquier in Cadiz, and a moustache of imposing size turned
up at the tips; he wore high buff leather boots, and there was an
air of military swagger about him, and he was altogether so changed
that at the first glance the muleteer failed to recognize him. As
soon as the mules were unburdened, Gerald found an opportunity of
speaking with him.

"I will go round at once," the man said, "to the place where I shall
certainly obtain news of my friends if they are here. I told your
honour that they might be here, but they may have gone away on
some affair of business, and may be on the road or at Seville. They
always work between this town and Seville."

"I understand that you may not meet them tonight; if not, I will
meet you again in Seville. How long will you be finding out about
them?"

"I shall know in half an hour, senor; if they are not here I shall
be back here in less than an hour, but if I find them I shall
be detained longer in order to talk over with them the offer your
worship makes."

"Very well; in an hour you will find me in the street opposite the
inn. I shall wait there until you come. If all is well make a sign
and I will follow you. Do not mention to them that I have in any
way disguised myself. Our acquaintance was so short that I don't
fancy they had time to examine me closely; and I have my own reasons
of wishing that they should not be acquainted with my ordinary
appearance, and have therefore to some extent disguised myself."

"I will say nothing about it," the muleteer replied. "Your worship
can depend upon my discretion."

"That is right," Gerald said. "We may have future dealings together,
and I can reward handsomely those I find trustworthy and punish
those who in the slightest degree disobey my orders."

In an hour and a half the muleteer returned, made a signal to Gerald
and passed on. The latter joined him at a short distance from the
hotel.

"It is all settled, senor. I found the men much dispirited at the
loss of their captain and comrades; and when I proposed to them
to take service under the caballero who wrought them such mischief
the other day, they jumped at the idea, saying that under such a
valiant leader there was no fear of the failure of any enterprise
they might undertake."

A quarter of an hour's walking took them to a small inn of
villainous appearance in one of the smallest lanes of the town.
Gerald was wrapped from head to foot in his cloak, and only his face
was visible. He had a brace of pistols in his belt, and was followed
at a short distance, unnoticed by the muleteer, by Geoffrey, who
had arranged to keep close to the door of any house he entered, and
was to be in readiness to rush in and take part in the fray if he
heard the sound of firearms within.

Gerald himself had not at first entertained any idea of treachery;
but Geoffrey had pointed out that it was quite possible that
the robbers and the muleteer had but feigned acquiescence in his
proposals in order to get him into their power, and take revenge
for the loss of their captain and comrades, and of the valuable
booty which had so unexpectedly slipped through their fingers owing
to his intervention.

The appearance of the six ruffians gathered in the low room, lighted
by a wretched lamp, was not very assuring, and Gerald kept his hand
on the butt of one of his pistols.

The four robbers who had been engaged in the fray, however, saluted
him respectfully, and the other two members of the band, who had
been absent on other business, followed their example. They had
heard from those present of the extraordinary valour with which
the two travelling companions of the trader had thrown themselves
into the fray, and had alone disposed of their four comrades,
and being without a leader, and greatly disheartened by their ill
luck, they were quite ready to forgive the misfortunes Gerald had
brought upon them, and to accept such a redoubtable swordsman as
their leader.

Gerald began the conversation. "You have heard," he said, "from
our friend here of the offer I make you. I desire a band of six men
on whom I can rely for an adventure which promises large profit.
Don't suppose that I am going to lead you to petty robberies on
the road, in which, as you learned to your cost the other day, one
sometimes gets more hard knocks than profit. Such adventures may
do for petty knaves, but they are not suited to me. The way to
get wealthy is to strike at the rich. My idea is to establish some
place in an out of the way quarter where there is no fear of prying
neighbours, and to carry off and hide there the sons and daughters
of wealthy men and put them to ransom. In the first instance I
am going to undertake a private affair of my own; and as you will
really run no risk in the matter, for I shall separate myself from
you after making my capture, I shall pay you only a earnest money
of twenty crowns each. In future affairs we shall act upon the
principle of shares. I shall take three shares, a friend who works
with me will take two shares, and you shall take one share apiece.
The risk will really be entirely mine, for I shall take charge of
the captives we make at our rendezvous. You, after lending a hand
in the capture, will return here and hold yourself in readiness to
join me, and carry out another capture as soon as I have made all
the necessary arrangements. Thus, if by any chance we are tracked,
I alone and my friend will run the risk of capture and punishment.
In that way we may, in the course of a few months, amass a much
larger booty than we should in a lifetime spent in these wretched
adventures upon travellers.

"Now, it is for you to say whether these terms will suit you, and
whether you are ready to follow my orders and obey me implicitly.
The whole task of making the necessary arrangements, or finding out
the habits of the families one of whose members we intend carrying
off, of bribing nurses or duennas, will be all my business. You
will simply have to meet when you are summoned to aid in the actual
enterprise, and then, when our captive is safely housed, to return
here or scatter where you will and live at ease until again summoned.
The utmost fidelity will be necessary. Large rewards will in many
cases be offered for the discovery of the missing persons, and
one traitor would bring ruin upon us all; therefore it will be
absolutely necessary that you take an oath of fidelity to me, and
swear one and all to punish the traitor with death. Do you agree
to my proposal?"

There was a unanimous exclamation of assent. The plan seemed to
offer probabilities of large booty with a minimum of trouble and
risk. One or two suggested that they should like to join in the
first capture on the same terms as the others, but Gerald at once
pronounced this to be impossible.

"This is my own affair," he said, "and money is not now my object.
As you will only be required to meet at a given hour some evening,
and to carry off a captive who will not be altogether unwilling
to come, there will be little or no risk in the matter, and twenty
crowns will not be bad pay for an evening's work. After that you
will, as I have said, share in the profits of all future captures
we may undertake."

The band all agreed, and at once took solemn oaths of fidelity to
their new leader, and swore to punish by death any one of their
number who should betray the secrets of the body.

"That is well," Gerald said when the oaths had been taken. "It
may be a week before you receive your first summons. Here are five
crowns apiece for your expenses up to that time. Let one of you
be in front of the great church as the clock strikes eight morning
and evening. Do not wait above five minutes; if I am coming I
shall be punctual. In the meantime take counsel among yourselves
as to the best hiding place that can be selected. Between you you
no doubt know every corner and hole in the country. I want a place
which will be at once lonely and far removed from other habitations,
but it must be at the same time moderately comfortable, as the
captives we take must have no reason to complain of their treatment
while in my hands. Think this matter over before I again see you."

Gerald then joined Geoffrey outside, and found that the latter
was beginning to be anxious at his long absence. After a few words
saying that everything had been successfully arranged, the two
friends returned together to their inn.

CHAPTER XIII

THE FESTA AT SEVILLE

"And now, Gerald, that you have made your arrangements for the
second half of the plan, how are you going to set about the first?
because you said that you intended to give Donna Inez the option
of flying with you or remaining with her father."

"So I do still. Before I make any attempt to carry her off I shall
first learn whether she is willing to run the risks."

"But how are you going to set about it? You may be quite sure that
she never goes outside the garden without having her duenna with
her. If there is a chapel close by, doubtless she will go there
once a day; and it seems to me that this would be the best chance
of speaking to her, for I do not see how you can possibly introduce
yourself into the grounds."

"That would be quite out of the question, in daylight at any rate,
Geoffrey. I do not suppose she ever goes beyond the terrace by the
house. But if I could communicate with her she might slip out for
a few minutes after dark, when the old lady happened to be taking
a nap. The question is how to get a letter into her hands."

"I think I might manage that, Gerald. It is not likely that the
duenna ever happened to notice me. I might therefore put on any
sort of disguise as a beggar and take my place on the road as she
goes to chapel, and somehow or other get your note into her hand. I
have heard Spanish girls are very quick at acting upon the smallest
sign, and if I can manage to catch her eye for a moment she may
probably be ingenious enough to afford me an opportunity of passing
the note to her."

"That might be done," Gerald agreed. "We will at once get disguises.
I will dress myself as an old soldier, with one arm in a sling and
a patch over my eye; you dress up in somewhat the same fashion as
a sailor boy. It is about twelve miles from here to Ribaldo's place.
We can walk that easily enough, dress ourselves up within a mile
or two of the place, and then go on and reconnoitre the ground."

"I should advise you to write your note before you start; it may be
that some unexpected opportunity for handing it to her may present
itself."

"I will do that; but let us sally out first and pick up two suits
at some dealer in old clothes. There will be sure to be two or
three of these in the poorer quarter."

The disguises were procured without difficulty, and putting them
in a small wallet they started before noon on their walk. In four
hours they reached the boundary of the Marquis of Ribaldo's estate.
Going into a wood they assumed the disguises, packed their own
clothes in a wallet, and hid this away in a clump of bushes. Then
they again started--Gerald Burke with his arm in a sling and
Geoffrey limping along with the aid of a thick stick he had cut in
the wood.

On arriving at the village, a quarter of a mile from the gates of
the mansion, they went into a small wine shop and called for two
measures of the cheapest wine and a loaf of bread. Here they sat
for some time, listening to the conversation of the peasants who
frequented the wine shop. Sometimes a question was asked of the
wayfarers. Gerald replied, for his companion's Spanish although
fluent was not good enough to pass as that of a native. He replied
to the question as to where they had received their hurts that they
were survivors of the Armada, and grumbled that it was hard indeed
that men who had fought in the Netherlands and had done their duty
to their country should be turned adrift to starve.

"We have enough to pay for our supper and a night's lodging," he
said, "but where we are going to take our meal tomorrow is more
than I can say, unless we can meet with some charitable people."

"If you take your place by the roadside tomorrow morning," one
of the peasants said, "you may obtain charity from Donna Inez de
Ribaldo. She comes every morning to mass here; and they say she has
a kind heart, which is more than men give her father the marquis
the credit of possessing. We have not many poor round here, for at
this time of year all hands are employed in the vineyards, therefore
there is the more chance of your obtaining a little help."

"Thank you; I will take your advice," Gerald said. "I suppose she
is sure to come?"

"She is sure enough; she never misses when she is staying here."

That night the friends slept on a bundle of straw in an outhouse
behind the wine shop, and arranged everything; and upon the following
morning took their seats by the roadside near the village. The
bell of the chapel was already sounding, and in a few minutes they
saw two ladies approaching, followed at a very short distance by
a serving man. They had agreed that the great patch over Gerald's
eye aided by the false moustachios, so completely disguised his
appearance that they need have no fear of his being recognized; and
it was therefore decided he should do the talking. As Donna Inez
came up he commenced calling out: "Have pity, gracious ladies, upon
two broken down soldiers. We have gone through all the dangers and
hardships of the terrible voyage of the great Armada. We served in
the ship San Josef and are now broken down, and have no means of
earning our living."

Gerald had somewhat altered his natural voice while speaking, but
Geoffrey was watching Donna Inez closely, and saw her start when
he began to speak; and when he said they had been on board the San
Josef a flush of colour came across her face.

"We must relieve these poor men," she said to the duenna; "it is
pitiful to see them in such a state."

"We know not that their tale is true," the duenna replied sharply.
"Every beggar in our days pretends to be a broken down soldier."

At this moment Donna Inez happened to glance at Geoffrey, who
raised his hand to his face and permitted a corner of a letter to
be momentarily seen.

"An impostor!" Gerald cried in a loud voice. "To think that I,
suffering from my terrible wounds, should be taken as an impostor,"
and with a hideous yell he tumbled down as if in a fit, and rolled
over and over on the ground towards the duenna.

Seized with alarm at his approach, she turned and ran a few paces
backward. As she did so Geoffrey stepped up to Inez and held out
the note, which she took and concealed instantly in her dress.

"There is nothing to be alarmed at," she cried to the duenna. "The
poor man is doubtless in a fit. Here, my poor fellow, get aid for
your comrade," and taking out her purse she handed a dollar to
Geoffrey, and then joining the duenna proceeded on her way.

Geoffrey knelt beside his prostrate companion and appeared to be
endeavouring to restore him, until the ladies and their servant
were out of sight.

"That was well managed," Gerald Burke said, sitting up as soon as
a turn of the road hid them from view. "Now we shall have our answer
tomorrow. Thank goodness there is no occasion for us to remain any
longer in these garments!"

They went to the wood and resumed their usual attire, and then
walked to a large village some four miles away, and putting up at
the principal inn remained there until early the next morning; then
they walked back to the village they had left on the previous day
and posted themselves in a thicket by the roadside, so that they
could see passersby without being themselves observed.

"My fate will soon be decided now," Gerald said. "Will she wear a
white flower or not?"

"I am pretty sure that she will," Geoffrey said. "She would not
have started and coloured when she recognized your voice if she did
not love you. I do not think you need be under much uneasiness on
that score."

In half an hour the ladies again came along, followed as before
by their servants. Donna Inez wore a bunch of white flowers in her
dress.

"There is my answer," Gerald said. "Thank heaven! she loves me, and
is ready to fly with me, and will steal out some time after dark
to meet me in the garden."

As there was no occasion for him to stay longer, Geoffrey returned
to the village where they slept the night before, and accounted
for his companion's absence by saying that he had been detained
on business and would probably not return until late at night, as
he would not be able to see the person with whom he had affairs
to transact until late. It was past ten o'clock when Gerald Burke
returned.

"It is all arranged, Geoffrey. I hid in the garden close by the
terrace as soon as it became dark. An hour later she came out and
sauntered along the terrace until I softly called her name; then
she came to me. She loves me with all her heart, and is ready to
share my fate whatever it may be. Her father only two days ago had
ordered her to prepare for her marriage with Don Philip, and she
was in despair until she recognized my voice yesterday morning. She
is going with her father to a grand festa at Seville next Wednesday.
They will stop there two nights--the one before the festa and the
one after. I told her that I could not say yet whether I should make
the attempt to carry her off on her journey or after her return
here, as that must depend upon circumstances. At any rate, that
gives us plenty of time to prepare our plans. Tomorrow we will hire
horses and ride to Seville, and I will there arrange with one of
my friends at the Irish College to perform the ceremony. However,
we will talk it all over tomorrow as we ride. I feel as sleepy as
a dog now after the day's excitement."

Upon the road next day they agreed that if possible they would manage
to get Inez away in Seville itself. Owing to the large number of
people who would be attracted there to witness the grand procession
and high mass at the cathedral, the streets would be crowded, and
it might be possible for Inez to slip away from those with her.
If this could be managed it would be greatly preferable to the
employment of the men to carry her off by force. Therefore they
agreed that the band should be posted so that the party could be
intercepted on its way back; but that this should be a last resource,
and that if possible Inez should be carried off in Seville itself.

On reaching Seville they put up at an inn. Gerald at once proceeded
to the Irish College. Here he inquired for a young priest, who had
been a near neighbour of his in Ireland and a great friend of his
boyhood. He was, he knew, about to return home. He found that he
was at the moment away from Seville, having gone to supply the place
of a village cure who had been taken suddenly ill. This village
was situated, he was told, some six miles southeast of the town.
It was already late in the afternoon, but time was precious; and
Gerald, hiring a fresh horse, rode out at once to the village. His
friend was delighted to see him, for they had not met since Gerald
passed through Seville on his way to join the Armada at Cadiz, and
the young priest had not heard whether he had escaped the perils
of the voyage.

"It is lucky you have come, Gerald," he said when the first greetings
were over, "for I am going to return to Ireland in a fortnight's
time. I am already appointed to a charge near Cork, and am to sail
in a Bristol ship which is expected in Cadiz about that time. Is
there any chance of my meeting you there?"

"An excellent chance, Denis, though my route is not as clearly
marked out as yours is. I wish to heaven that I could go by the
same ship. And that leads to what I have come to see you about,"
and he then told his friend the service he wished him to render.

"It is rather a serious business, Gerald; and a nice scrape I should
get in if it were found out that I had solemnized the marriage of
a young lady under age without the consent of her father, and that
father a powerful nobleman. However, I am not the man to fail you
at a pinch, and if matters are well managed there is not much risk
of its being found out that I had a hand in it until I am well
away, and once in Ireland no one is likely to make any great fuss
over my having united a runaway pair in Spain. Besides, if you and
the young lady have made up your minds to run away, it is evidently
necessary that you should be married at once; so my conscience is
perfectly clear in the business. And now, what is your plan?"

"The only part of my plan that is settled is to bring her here and
marry her. After that I shall have horses ready, and we will ride
by unfrequented roads to Malaga or some other port and take a
passage in a ship sailing say to Italy, for there is no chance of
getting a vessel hence to England. Once in Italy there will be no
difficulty in getting a passage to England. I have with me a young
Englishman, as staunch a friend as one can need. I need not tell
you all about how I became acquainted with him; but he is as anxious
to get out of Spain as I am, and that is saying no little."

"It seems rather a vague plan, Gerald. There is sure to be a great
hue and cry as soon as the young lady is found to be missing. The
marquis is a man of great influence, and the authorities will use
every effort to enable him to discover her."

"You see, Denis, they will have no reason for supposing that I have
had any hand in the matter, and therefore no special watch will
be set at the ports. The duenna for her own sake is not likely to
say a word about any passages she may have observed between us at
Madrid, and she is unaware that there have been any communications
with her since."

"I suppose you will at once put on disguises, Gerald."

"Yes, that will of course be the first thing."

"If you dress her as a young peasant woman of the better class and
yourself as a small cultivator, I will mention to my servant that
I am expecting my newly married niece and her husband to stay
with me for a few days. The old woman will have no idea that I,
an Irishman, would not have a Spanish niece, and indeed I do not
suppose that she has any idea that I am not a Spaniard. I will open
the church myself and perform the service late in the evening, so
that no one will be aware of what is going on. Of course I can put
up your friend too. Then you can stay quietly here as long as you
like."

"That will do admirably, Denis; but I think we had best go on the
next morning," Gerald said, "although it will be a day or two before
there is anything like an organized pursuit. It will be supposed
that she is in Seville, and inquiries will at first be confined to
that town. If she leaves a note behind saying that she is determined
even to take the veil rather than marry the man her father has
chosen for her, that will cause additional delay. It will be supposed
that she is concealed in the house of some friend, or that she has
sought a refuge in a nunnery, and at any rate there is not likely
to be any search over the country for some days, especially as her
father will naturally be anxious that what he will consider an act
of rebellion on the part of his daughter shall not become publicly
known."

"All this, of course, is if we succeed in getting her clear away
during the fete. If we have to fall back on the other plan I was
talking of and carry her off by force on the way home, the search
will be immediate and general. In that case nothing could be better
than your plan that we should stop here quietly for a few days
with you. They will be searching for a band of robbers and will
not dream of making inquiry for the missing girl in a quiet village
like this."

"Well, we will leave that open, Gerald. I shall let it be known
that you are expected, and whenever you arrive you will be welcome."

As soon as the point was arranged Gerald again mounted his horse
and returned to Seville. There upon the following morning he engaged
a lodging for the three days of the festa in a quiet house in the
outskirts of the town, and they then proceeded to purchase the
various articles necessary for their disguise and that of Inez.
The next morning they started on their return to Jeres. Here Gerald
made arrangements with the band to meet him in a wood on the road
to Cadiz at eight in the morning on the day following the termination
of the festa at Seville. One of the party was to proceed on that day
to the house among the hills they had fixed upon as their hiding
place, and to get provisions and everything requisite for the
reception of their captive. They received another five crowns each,
the remaining fifteen was to be paid them as soon as they arrived
with their captive at the house.

The party remained in ignorance as to the age and sex of the person