Home
  By Author [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Title [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Language
all Classics books content using ISYS

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon


We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month
fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: Vine and Olive; Or Young America in Spain and Portugal - A Story of Travel and Adventure
Author: Optic, Oliver
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Vine and Olive; Or Young America in Spain and Portugal - A Story of Travel and Adventure" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.



                         TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.

—Bold text has been rendered as =bold text=.

—Spaced text (gesperrt) has been rendered as ~bold text~.


[Illustration: THE ACADEMY SQUADRON OFF BARCELONA. Page 12.]



[Illustration: DECORATED FRONT PAGE:

YOUNG AMERICA ABROAD
BY
OLIVER OPTIC.

_VINE
&
OLIVE_

BOSTON
LEE & SHEPARD.]



                 _YOUNG AMERICA ABROAD—SECOND SERIES._


                            VINE AND OLIVE;


                      YOUNG AMERICA IN SPAIN AND
                               PORTUGAL.


                   A STORY OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE.


                                  BY

                          ~WILLIAM T. ADAMS~
                           (_OLIVER OPTIC_),

    AUTHOR OF “OUTWARD BOUND,” “SHAMROCK AND THISTLE,” “RED CROSS,”
         “DIKES AND DITCHES,” “PALACE AND COTTAGE,” “DOWN THE
              RHINE,” “UP THE BALTIC,” “NORTHERN LANDS,”
                     “CROSS AND CRESCENT,” “SUNNY
                             SHORES,” ETC.


                                BOSTON:
                    ~LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.~

                               NEW YORK:
                        CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.



                              COPYRIGHT:
                         BY WILLIAM T. ADAMS.
                                 1876.



                             TO MY FRIEND,
                        ~HENRY RUGGLES, ESQ.,~

            “CONSULADO DE LOS ESTADOS UNIDOS, EN BARCELONA,
                         EN TIEMPOS PASADOS,”

            WHEN WE “ASSISTED” TOGETHER AT A BULL–FIGHT IN
                MADRID, VISITED EL ESCORIAL AND TOLEDO,
                       AND WITH WHOM THE AUTHOR
                          RELUCTANTLY PARTED
                            AT CASTILLEJO,

                             ~THIS VOLUME~

                      IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.



PREFACE.


VINE AND OLIVE, the fifth volume of the second series of
“YOUNG AMERICA ABROAD,” contains the history of the Academy
Squadron during the cruise along the shores of Spain and
Portugal, and the travels of the students in the peninsula. As in
the preceding volumes, the professor of geography and history
discourses on these subjects to the pupils, conveying to them a
great deal of useful information concerning the countries they
visit. The surgeon of the ship is a sort of encyclopædia of travel;
and, while he is on shore with a couple of the juvenile officers,
he enlightens them by his talk on a great variety of topics; and
the description of “sights” is given in these conversations, or in
the “waits” between the speeches. In addition to the cities of the
peninsula on the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, the young travellers
cross the country from Barcelona to Lisbon, visiting on the
way Saragossa, Burgos, the Escurial, Madrid, Toledo, Aranjuez,
Badajos, and Elvas. In another excursion by land, they start from
Malaga, and take in Granada and the Alhambra, Cordova, Seville,
and Cadiz. Besides the ports mentioned, the party vessels visit
Valencia, Alicante,—from which they make an excursion to Elche
to see its palms—Carthagena, and Gibraltar.

The author has visited every country included in the titles of
the eleven volumes of the two series of which the present volume
is the last published. He has been abroad twice for the sole purpose
of obtaining the materials for these books; his object being
to produce books that would instruct as well as amuse.

The story of the incendiaries and of the young Spanish officer of
the Tritonia, interwoven with the incidents of travel, is in accordance
with the plan adopted in the first, and followed out in every
subsequent volume of the two series. Doubtless the book will
have some readers who will skip the lectures of the professor and
the travel–talk of the surgeon, and others who will turn unread the
pages on which the story is related; but we fancy the former will
be larger than the latter class. If both are suited, the author
need not complain; though he especially advises his young
friends to read the historical portions of the volume, because he
thinks that the maritime history of Portugal, for instance, ought
to interest them more than any story he can invent.

The titles of all the books of this series were published ten
years ago. The boys and girls who read the first volume are men
and women now; and the task the author undertook then will be
finished in one more volume.

With the hope that he will live to complete the work begun
so many years ago, the author once more returns his grateful
acknowledgments to his friends, old and young, for the favor
they have extended to this series.

TOWERHOUSE, BOSTON, Oct. 19, 1876.



CONTENTS.


                                                                   PAGE.

     I. SOMETHING ABOUT THE MARINES                                   11

    II. AT THE QUARANTINE STATION                                     26

   III. A GRANDEE OF SPAIN                                            41

    IV. THE PROFESSOR’S TALK ABOUT SPAIN                              53

     V. A SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE                                        79

    VI. A LOOK AT BARCELONA                                           87

   VII. FIRE AND WATER                                               102

  VIII. SARAGOSSA AND BURGOS                                         116

    IX. THE HOLD OF THE TRITONIA                                     133

     X. THE ESCURIAL AND PHILIP II.                                  145

    XI. THE CRUISE IN THE FELUCCA                                    159

   XII. SIGHTS IN MADRID                                             173

  XIII. AFTER THE BATTLE IN THE FELUCCA                              187

   XIV. TOLEDO, AND TALKS ABOUT SPAIN                                202

    XV. TROUBLE IN THE RUNAWAY CAMP                                  221

   XVI. BILL STOUT AS A TOURIST                                      233

  XVII. THROUGH THE HEART OF SPAIN                                   245

 XVIII. AFRICA AND REPENTANCE                                        261

   XIX. WHAT PORTUGAL HAS DONE IN THE WORLD                          274

    XX. LISBON AND ITS SURROUNDINGS                                  292

   XXI. A SAFE HARBOR                                                305

  XXII. THE FRUITS OF REPENTANCE                                     319

 XXIII. GRANADA AND THE ALHAMBRA                                     333

  XXIV. AN ADVENTURE ON THE ROAD                                     349

   XXV. CORDOVA, SEVILLE, AND CADIZ                                  358

  XXVI. THE CAPTURE OF THE BEGGARS                                   373

 XXVII. THE BULL–FIGHT AT SEVILLE                                    390



                            VINE AND OLIVE.



                            VINE AND OLIVE;

                                  OR,

                 YOUNG AMERICA IN SPAIN AND PORTUGAL.



CHAPTER I.

SOMETHING ABOUT THE MARINES.


“Land, ho!” shouted the lookout in the foretop of
the Tritonia.

“Where away?” demanded the officer of the deck,
as he glanced in the direction the land was expected to
be found.

“Broad on the weather bow,” returned the seaman
in the foretop.

“Mr. Raimundo,” said the officer of the deck, who
was the third lieutenant, calling to the second master.

“Mr. Scott,” replied the officer addressed, touching
his cap to his superior.

“You will inform the captain, if you please, that the
lookout reports land on the weather bow.”

The second master touched his cap again, and hastened
to the cabin to obey the order. The academy
squadron, consisting of the steamer American Prince
and the topsail schooners Josephine and Tritonia,
were bound from Genoa to Barcelona. They had a
short and very pleasant passage, and the students
on board of all the vessels were in excellent spirits.
Though they had been seeing sights through all the
preceding year, they were keenly alive to the pleasure
of visiting a country so different as Spain from any
other they had seen. The weather was warm and
pleasant for the season, and the young men were anxiously
looking forward to the arrival at Barcelona. On
the voyage and while waiting in Genoa, they had
studied up all the books in the library that contained
any thing about the interesting land they were next to
visit.

The Tritonia sailed on the starboard, and the Josephine
on the port quarter, of the American Prince.
The two consorts had all sail set, and were making
about eight knots an hour, which was only half speed
for the steamer, to which she had been reduced in order
to keep company with the sailing vessels. Though
the breeze was tolerably fresh, the sea was smooth,
and the vessels had very little motion. The skies were
as blue and as clear as skies can ever be; and nothing
could be more delicious than the climate.

In the saloon of the steamer and the steerage of the
schooners, which were the schoolrooms of the academy
squadron, one–half of the students of the fleet were
engaged in their studies and recitations. A quarter
watch was on duty in each vessel, and the same portion
were off duty. But the latter were not idle: they were,
for the most part, occupied in reading about the new
land they were to visit; and the more ambitious were
preparing for the next recitation. Their positions on
board for the next month would depend upon their
merit–roll; and it was a matter of no little consequence
to them whether they were officers or seamen, whether
they lived in the cabin or steerage. Some were struggling
to retain the places they now held, and others
were eager to win what they had not yet attained.

There were from two to half a dozen in each vessel
who did only what they were obliged to do, either in
scholarship or seamanship. At first, ship’s duty had
been novel and pleasant to them; and they had done
well for a time,—had even struggled hard with their
lessons for the sake of attaining creditable places as
officers and seamen. They had been kindly and generously
encouraged as long as they deserved it; but,
when the novelty had worn away, they dropped back to
what they had been before they became students of the
academy squadron. Mr. Lowington labored hard over
the cases of these fellows; and, next to getting the fleet
safely into port, his desire was to reform them.

In the Tritonia were four of them, who had also
challenged the attention and interest of Mr. Augustus
Pelham, the vice–principal in charge of the vessel, who
had formerly been a student in the academy ship, and
who had been a wild boy in his time. The interest
which Mr. Lowington manifested in these wayward
fellows had inspired the vice–principal to follow his
example. Possibly the pleasant weather had some influence
on the laggards; for they seemed to be very
restive and uneasy under restraint as the squadron
approached the coast of Spain. All four of them were
in the starboard watch, and in the second part thereof,
where they had been put so that the vice–principal could
know where to find them when he desired to watch them
at unusual hours.

The third lieutenant was the officer of the deck,
assisted by the second master. The former was planking
the weather side of the quarter deck, and the latter
was moving about in the waist. The captain came on
deck, and looked at the distant coast through his glass;
but it was an old story, and he remained on deck but
a few minutes. Raimundo, the officer in the waist, was
a Spaniard, and the shore on the starboard was that of
“his own, his native land.” But this fact did not seem
to excite any enthusiasm in his mind: in fact, he really
wished it had been somebody else’s native land, and he
did not wish to go there. He bestowed more attention
upon the four idlers, who had coiled themselves away
in the lee side of the waist, than upon the shadowy
shore of the home of his ancestors. He was a sharp
officer; and this was his reputation on board. He
could snuff mischief afar off; and more than one
conspiracy had been blighted by his vigilance. He
seemed to be gazing at the clear blue sky, and to be
enjoying its azure transparency; but he had an eye to
the laggards all the time.

“I wonder what those marines are driving at,” said
he to himself, after he had studied the familiar phenomenon
for a while, and, as it appeared, without any
satisfactory result. “I never see those four fellows
talking together as long as they have been at it, without
an earthquake or some sort of a smash following
pretty soon after. I suppose they are going to run
away, for that is really the most fashionable sport on
board of all the vessels of the fleet.”

Perhaps the second master was right, and perhaps
he was wrong. Certainly running away had been the
greatest evil that had tried the patience of the principal;
but there had been hardly a case of it since the
squadron came into the waters of the Mediterranean,
and he hoped the practice had gone out of fashion. It
had been so unsuccessful, that most of the students
regarded it as a played–out expedient.

Raimundo was one of those whom this nautical institution
had saved to be a blessing, instead of a curse, to
the community; but he was truly reformed, and, over
and above his duty as an officer, he was sincerely desirous
to save the “marines” from the error of their
ways. He did not expect them to uncover their plans
all at once, and he was willing to watch and wait.

Having viewed the marines from the officer’s side of
the question, we will enter into the counsels of those
who were the subjects of this official scrutiny. After
the first few months of life in the squadron, these four
fellows had been discontented and dissatisfied. They
had been transferred from one vessel to another, in the
hope that they might find their appropriate sphere; but
there seemed to be no sphere below—at least, as far
as they had gone—where they could revolve and shine.
They had been “sticks,” wherever they were. One
country seemed to be about the same as any other to
them. They did not like to study; they did not like
to “knot and splice;” they did not like to stand watch;
they did not like to read even stories, fond as they
were of yarns of the coarser sort; they did not like to
do any thing but eat, sleep, and loaf about the deck, or,
on shore, but to dissipate and indulge in rowdyism.
Two of them had been transferred to the Tritonia from
the Prince at Genoa, and the other two had been in the
schooner but two months.

“I’m as tired as death of this sort of thing,” said
Bill Stout, the oldest and biggest fellow of the four.

“I had enough of it in a month after I came on
board,” added Ben Pardee, who was lying flat on his
back, and gazing listlessly up into the clear blue sky;
“but what can a fellow do?”

“Nothing at all,” replied Lon Gibbs. “It’s the
same thing from morning to night, from one week’s
end to the other.”

“Can’t we get up some sort of an excitement?”
asked Bark Lingall, whose first name was Barclay.

“We have tried it on too many times,” answered
Ben Pardee, who was perhaps the most prudent of the
four. “We never make out any thing. The fellows in
the Tritonia are a lot of spoonies, and are afraid to
say their souls are their own.”

“They are good little boys, lambs of the chaplain’s
fold,” sneered Lon Gibbs. “There is nothing like fun
in them.”

“We are almost at the end of the cruise, at any rate,”
said Bark Lingall, who seemed to derive great comfort
from the fact. “This slavery is almost at an end.”

“I don’t know about that,” added Bill Stout.

“Spain and Portugal are the last countries in Europe
we are to visit; and we shall finish them up in
three or four weeks more.”

“And what then? we are not to go home and be discharged,
as you seem to think,” continued Bill Stout.
“We are to go to the West Indies, taking in a lot of
islands on the way—I forget what they are.”

“I can stand it better when we are at sea,” said Ben
Pardee. “There is more life in it as we are tumbling
along in a big sea. Besides, there will be something to
see in those islands. These cities of Europe are about
the same thing; and, when you have seen one, you
have seen the whole of them.”

“I don’t know about that,” suggested Lon Gibbs,
who, from the chaplain’s point of view, was the most
hopeful of the four; for his education was better than
the others, and he had some taste for the wonders of
nature and art. “Spain ought to be worth seeing to
fellows from the United States of America. I suppose
you know that Columbus sailed from this country.”

“Is that so?” laughed Bark Lingall. “I thought he
was an Italian; at any rate, we saw the place where he
was born, or else it was a fraud.”

“I think you had better read up your history again,
and you will find that Columbus was born in Italy, but
sailed in the service of Spain,” replied Lon Gibbs.

“That will do!” interposed Bill Stout, turning up
his nose. “We don’t want any of that sort of thing in
our crowd. If you wish to show off your learning,
Lon, you had better go and join the lambs.”

“That’s so. It’s treason to talk that kind of bosh in
our company. We have too much of it in the steerage
to tolerate any of it when we are by ourselves,” said
Ben Pardee.

“I thought you were going to do something about
it,” added Bill Stout. “We are utterly disgusted, and
we agreed that we could not stand it any longer. We
shall go into the next place—I forget the name of
it”—

“Barcelona,” added Lon Gibbs, who was rather
annoyed at the dense ignorance of his friend.

“Barcelona, then. I suppose it is some one–horse
seaport, where we are expected to go into ecstasies over
tumble–down old buildings, or pretend that we like to
look at a lot of musty pictures. I have had enough of
this sort of thing, as I said before. I should like to
have a right down good time, such as we had in New
York when we went round among the theatres and the
beer–shops. That was fun for me. I’m no book–worm,
and I don’t pretend to be. I won’t make believe that
I enjoy looking at ruins and pictures when it is a bore
to me. I will not be a hypocrite, whatever else I am.”

Bill Stout evidently believed that he had some virtue
left; and, as he delivered himself of his sentiments, he
looked like a much abused and wronged young man.

“Here we are; and in six or eight hours we shall be
in Barcelona,” continued Ben Pardee.

“And it is no such one–horse place as you seem to
think it is,” added Lon Gibbs. “It is a large city; in
fact, the second in size in Spain, and with about the
same population as Boston. It is a great commercial
place.”

“You have learned the geography by heart,” sneered
Bill Stout, who had a hearty contempt for those who
knew any thing contained in the books, or at least for
those who made any display of their knowledge.

“I like, when I am going to any place, to know
something about it,” pleaded Lon, in excuse for his
wisdom in regard to Barcelona.

“Are there any beer–shops there, Lon?” asked Bill.

“I don’t know.”

“Then your education has been neglected.”

“Spain is not a beer–drinking country; and I should
say you would find no beer–shops there,” continued
Lon. “Spain is a wine country; and I have no doubt
you will find plenty of wine–shops in Barcelona, and in
the other cities of the country.”

“Wine–shops! that will do just as well, and perhaps
a little better,” chuckled Bill. “There is no fun where
there are no wine or beer shops.”

“What’s the use of talking?” demanded Bark Lingall.
“What are the wine or the beer shops to do with
us? If we entered one of them, we should be deprived
of our liberty, or be put into the brig for twenty–four
hours; and that don’t pay.”

“But I want to break away from this thing altogether,”
added Bill Stout. “I have been a slave from
the first moment I came into the squadron. I never
was used to being tied up to every hour and minute in
the day. A fellow can’t move without being watched.
What they call recreation is as solemn as a prayer–meeting.”

“Well, what do you want to do, Bill?” asked Ben
Pardee, as he glanced at the second master, who had
halted in his walk in the waist, to overhear, if he could,
any word that might be dropped by the party.

“That’s more than I am able to say just at this
minute,” replied Bill, pausing till the officer of the
watch had moved on. “I want to end this dog’s life,
and be my own master once more. I want to get out
of this vessel, and out of the fleet.”

“Would you like to get into the steamer?” asked
Lon Gibbs.

“I should like that for a short time; but I don’t
think I should be satisfied in her for more than a week
or two. It was just my luck, when I got out of the
Young America, after she went to the bottom, to have
the American Prince come to take her place, and leave
me out in the cold. No, I don’t want to stay in the
steamer; but I should like to be in her a few days, just
to see how things are done. All the fellows have to
keep strained up in her, even more than in the Tritonia;
and that is just the thing I don’t like. In fact, it is just
the thing I won’t stand much longer.”

“What are you going to do about it? How are you
going to help yourself?” inquired Lon Gibbs. “Here
we are, and here we must stay. It is all nonsense to
think of such a thing as running away.”

“I want some sort of an excitement, and I’m going
to have it too, if I am sent home in some ship–of–war
in irons.”

“You are getting desperate, Bill,” laughed Ben
Pardee.

“That’s just it, Ben; I am getting desperate. I cannot
endure the life I am leading on board of this vessel.
It is worse than slavery to me. If you can stand it,
you are welcome to do so.”

“We all hate it as bad as you do,” added Bark Lingall,
who had the reputation of being the boldest and
pluckiest of the bad boys on board of the Tritonia.

“I don’t think you do. If you did, you would be as
ready as I am to break the chains that bind us.”

“We are ready to do any thing that will end this
dog’s life,” replied Bark. “We will stand by you, if
you will only tell us what to do.”

“I think you are ready for business, Bark; but I am
not so sure of the others,” he added, glancing into the
faces of Lon Gibbs and Ben Pardee.

“I don’t believe in running away,” said the prudent
Ben.

“Nor I,” added Lon.

“I knew you were afraid of your own shadows,”
sneered Bill.

“We are not afraid of any thing; but so many fellows
have tried to run away, and made fools of themselves,
that I am not anxious to try it on. The principal
always gets the best of it. There were the two fellows,
De Forrest and Beckwith, who had been cabin officers,
that tried it on. Lowington didn’t seem to care what
became of them. But in the end they came back on
board, like a couple of sick monkeys, went into the
brig like white lambs, and to this day they have to stay
on board when the rest of the crew go ashore, in
charge of the big boatswain of the ship.”

“Well, what of it? I had as lief stay on board as
march in solemn procession with the professors through
the old churches of the place we are coming to—what
did you say the name of it was?”

“Barcelona,” answered Lon.

“But that’s not the thing, Bill,” protested Ben. “It
is not so much the brig and the loss of all shore liberty
as it is the being whipped out at your own game.”

“That’s the idea,” added Lon. “When those fellows
came on board, though they had been absent for weeks,
the principal only laughed at them as he ordered them
into the brig. There was not a fellow in the ship who
did not feel that they had made fools of themselves. I
would rather stay in the brig six months than feel as
I know those fellows felt at that moment.”

“I don’t think of running away,” continued Bill. “I
have a bigger idea than that in my mind.”

“What is it?” demanded the others, in the same
breath.

“I won’t tell you now, and not at all till I know that
you can bear it. Desperate cases require desperate
remedies; and I’m not sure that any of you are up to
it yet.”

No amount of teasing could induce Bill Stout to expose
the dark secret that was concealed in his mind;
and at noon the watch was relieved, so that they had
no other opportunity to talk till the first dog–watch;
but the secret came out in due time, and it was nothing
less than to burn the Tritonia. Bill believed that her
ship’s company could not be accommodated on board
of the other vessels, which were all full, and therefore
the students would be sent home. At first Bark Lingall
was horrified at the proposition; but having talked it
over for hours with Bill Stout alone, for the conspirator
would not yet trust the secret with Ben Pardee and
Lon Gibbs, he came to like the plan, and fully assented
to it. He would not consent to do any thing that
would expose the life of any person on board. It was
not till the following day that Bark came to the conclusion
to join in the conspiracy. Towards night, as it
was too late to go into port, the order had been signalled
from the Prince to stand off and on; and this
was done till the next morning.

The plan was discussed in all its details. It was
believed that the vessels would be quarantined at Barcelona,
and this would afford the best chance to carry
out the wicked plot. One of their number was to conceal
himself in the hold; and, when all hands had left
the vessel, he was to light the fire, and escape the best
way he could. If the fleet was not quarantined, the
job was to be done when the ship’s company landed to
see the city.

At eight bells in the morning, the signal was set on
the Prince to stand in for Barcelona. The conspirators
found no opportunity to broach the wicked scheme
to Ben and Lon. For the next three hours the starboard
watch were engaged in their duties. As may be supposed,
Bill Stout and Bark Lingall, with their heads full
of conspiracy and incendiarism, were in no condition to
recite their lessons, even if they had learned them,
which they had not done. They were both wofully
deficient, and Bill Stout did not pretend to know the
first thing about the subject on which he was called upon
to recite. The professor was very indignant, and reported
them to the vice–principal. Mr. Pelham found
them obstinate as well as deficient; and he ordered them
to be committed to the brig, and their books to be committed
with them. They were to stand their watches
on deck, and spend all the rest of the time in the cage,
till they were ready to recite the lessons in which they
had failed. The “brig” was the ship’s prison.

Mr. Marline, the adult boatswain, took charge of
them, and locked them up. The position of the brig
had been recently changed, and it was now under the
ladder leading from the deck to the steerage. The
partitions were hard wood slats, two inches thick and
three inches apart. Two stools were the only furniture
it contained, though a berth–sack was supplied for each
occupant at night. Their food, which was always much
plainer than that furnished for the cabin and steerage
tables, was passed in to them through an aperture in one
side, beneath which was a shelf that served for a table.

Bark looked at Bill, and Bill looked at Bark, when
the door had been secured, and the boatswain had left
them to their own reflections. Neither of them seemed
to be appalled by the situation. They sat down upon
the stools facing each other. Bark smiled upon Bill,
and Bill smiled in return. This was not the first time
they had been occupants of the brig.

“Here we are,” said Bill Stout, in a low tone, after
he had made a hasty survey of the prison. “I think
this is better than the old brig, and I believe we can be
happy here for a few days.”

“What will become of our big plan now, Bill?”
asked Bark.

“Hush!” added Bill in his hoarsest whisper, as he
looked through the slats of the prison to see if any one
was observing them.

“What’s the matter now?” demanded Bark, rather
startled by the impressive manner of his companion.

“Not a word,” replied Bill, as he pointed and gesticulated
in the direction of the flooring under the ladder.

“Well, what is it?” demanded Bark.

“Don’t you see?” and again he pointed as before.

“I don’t see any thing.”

“Then you are blind! Don’t you see that the new
brig has been built over one of the scuttles that lead
down into the hold?”

“I see it now. I didn’t know what you meant when
you pointed so like Hamlet’s ghost.”

“Don’t say a word, or look at it,” whispered Bill, as
he placed his stool over the trap, and looked out into
the steerage.

The vice–principal passed the brig at this moment,
and nothing more was said.



CHAPTER II.

AT THE QUARANTINE STATION.


While these events were transpiring below, the
signal had come from the Prince to shorten
sail on the schooners, for the squadron was within half
a mile of the long mole extending to the southward of
the tongue of land that forms the easterly side of the
harbor of Barcelona. A signal for a pilot was exhibited
on each vessel of the fleet, but no pilot boat
seemed to be in sight. As the bar could not be far
distant, it was not deemed prudent to advance any farther;
and the steamer had stopped her engine.

“Signal on the steamer to heave to, Mr. Greenwood,”
said Rolk, the fourth master, as he touched his cap to
the first lieutenant, who was the officer of the deck.

“I see it,” replied Greenwood. “Haul down the
jib, and back the fore–topsail!”

The necessary orders were given in detail, and in a
few moments the three vessels of the fleet were lying
almost motionless on the sea. Greenwood took a glass
from the beckets at the companion–way, and proceeded
to a make a survey of the situation ahead. But there
was nothing to be seen except the mole, and the high
fortified hill of Monjuich on the mainland, across the
harbor.

“Where are your pilots, Raimundo?” asked Scott
of the second master; and both of them were off duty
at this time.

“You won’t see any pilots yet awhile,” replied the
young Spaniard.

“Are they all asleep?”

“Do you think they will be weak enough to come on
board before the health officers have given their permission
for the vessels to enter the harbor?” added
Raimundo. “If they did so they would be sent into
quarantine themselves.”

“They are prudent, as they ought to be,” added
Scott. “I suppose you begin to feel at home about
this time; don’t you, Don Raimundo?”

“Not half so much at home as I do when I am farther
away from Spain,” replied the second master, with
a smile that seemed to be of a very doubtful character.

“Why, how is that?” asked Scott. “This is Spain,
the home of your parents, and the land that gave you
birth.”

“That’s true; but, for all that, I would rather go anywhere
than into Spain. In fact, I don’t think I shall
go on shore at all,” added Raimundo, and there was a
very sad look on his handsome face.

“Why, what’s the matter, my Don?”

“I thought very seriously of asking Mr. Lowington
to grant me leave of absence till the squadron reaches
Lisbon,” replied the second master. “I should have
done so if it had not been for losing my rank, and
taking the lowest place in the Tritonia.”

“I don’t understand you,” answered Scott, puzzled
by the sudden change that had come over his friend;
for, being in the same quarter watch, they had become
very intimate and very much attached to each other.

“Of course you do not understand it; but when I
have the chance I will tell you all about it, for I may
want you to help me before we get out of the waters of
Spain. But I wish you to know, above all things, that
I never did any thing wrong in Spain, whatever I may
have done in New York.”

“Of course not, for I think you said you left your
native land when you were only ten years old.”

“That’s so. I was born in this very city of Barcelona;
and I suppose I have an uncle there now;
but I would not meet him for all the money in Spain,”
said Raimundo, looking very sad, and even terrified.
“But we will not say any thing more about it now.
When I have a chance, I will tell you the whole story.
I am certain of one thing, and that is, I shall not go on
shore in Barcelona if I can help it. There is a boat
coming out from behind the mole.”

“An eight–oar barge; and the men in her pull as
though she were part of a funeral procession,” said
the first lieutenant, examining the boat with the glass.
“She has a yellow flag in her stern.”

“Then it is the health officers,” added Raimundo.

All hands in the squadron watched the approaching
boat; for by this time the quarantine question had excited
no little interest, and it was now to be decided.
The oarsmen pulled the man–of–war stroke; but the
pause after they recovered their blades was so fearfully
long that the rowers seemed to be lying on their oars
about half of the time. Certainly the progress of the
barge was very slow, and it was a long time before it
reached the American Prince. Then it was careful not
to come too near, lest any pestilence that might be
lurking in the ship should be communicated to the
funereal oarsmen or their officers. The boat took up
its position abreast of the steamer’s gangway, and
about thirty feet distant from her.

A well–dressed gentleman then stood up in the stern–sheets
of the barge, and hailed the ship. Mr. Lowington,
in full uniform, which he seldom wore, replied to
the hail in Spanish; and a long conference ensued.
When the principal said that the squadron came from
Genoa, the health officer shook his head. Then he
wanted to know all about the three vessels, and it
appeared to be very difficult for him to comprehend the
character of the school. At last he was satisfied on all
these points, and understood that the academy was
a private enterprise, and not an institution connected
with the United States Navy.

“Have you any sickness on board?” asked the health
officer, when the nature of the craft was satisfactorily
explained.

“We have two cases of measles in the steamer, but
all are well in the other vessels,” replied Mr. Lowington.

“_Sarampion!_” exclaimed the Spanish officer, using
the Spanish word for the measles.

At the same time he shrugged his shoulders like
a Frenchman, and vented his incredulity in a laugh.

“_Viruelas!_” added the officer; and the word in
English meant smallpox, which was just the disease the
Spaniards feared as coming from Genoa.

Mr. Lowington then called Dr. Winstock, the surgeon,
who spoke Spanish fluently, and presented him to the
incredulous health officer. A lengthy palaver between
the two medical men ensued. There appeared to be
some sort of freemasonry, or at least a professional
sympathy, between them, for they seemed to get on very
well together. The cases of measles were very light
ones, the two students having probably contracted the
disease in some interior town of Italy where they passed
the night at a hotel. They had been kept apart from the
other students, and no others had taken the malady.

The health officer declared that he was satisfied for
the present with the explanation of the surgeon, and
politely asked to see the ship’s papers, which the principal
held in his hand. The barge pulled up a little
nearer to the steamer; a long pole with a pair of spring
tongs affixed to the end of it was elevated to the gangway,
between the jaws of which Mr. Lowington placed
the documents. They were carefully examined, and
then all hands were required to show themselves in the
rigging. This order included every person on board,
not excepting the cooks, waiters, and coal–heavers. In
a few moments they were standing on the rail or perched
in the rigging, and the health officer and his assistants
proceeded to count them. The number was two short
of that indicated in the ship’s papers, for those who
were sick with the measles were not allowed to leave
their room.

The health officer then intimated that he would pay
the vessel a visit; and all hands were ordered to muster
at their stations where they could be most conveniently
inspected. Every part of the vessel was then carefully
examined, and the Spanish doctors minutely overhauled
the two cases of measles. They declared themselves
fully satisfied that there was neither yellow fever nor
smallpox on board of the steamer. The other vessels
of the squadron were subjected to the same inspection.
Mr. Lowington and Dr. Winstock attended the health
officer in his visit to the Josephine and the Tritonia.

“You find our vessels in excellent health,” said Dr.
Winstock, when the examination was completed.

“Very good; but we cannot get over the fact that
you come from Genoa, where the smallpox is prevailing
badly. Vessels from that port are quarantined at Marseilles
for from three days to a fortnight; but I shall
not be hard with you, as you have a skilful surgeon on
board,” replied the health officer, touching his hat to
Dr. Winstock; “but my orders from the authorities are
imperative that all vessels from infected or doubtful
ports shall be fumigated before any person from them
is allowed to land in the city. We have had the yellow
fever so severely all summer that we are very cautious.”

“Is it necessary to fumigate?” asked Dr. Winstock,
with a smile.

“The authorities require it, and I am not at liberty
to dispense with it,” answered the official. “But it will
detain you only a few hours. You will land the ship’s
company of each vessel, and they will be fumigated on
shore. While they are absent our people will purify
the vessels.”

“Is there any yellow fever in the city now?” asked
the surgeon of the fleet.

“None at all. The frost has entirely killed it; but
we have many patients who are recovering from the
disease. The people who went away have all returned,
and we call the city healthy.”

The quarantine grounds were pointed out to the
principal; and the fleet was soon at anchor within a
cable’s length of the shore. Study and recitation were
suspended for the rest of the day. All the boats of
the American Prince were manned; her fires were
banked; the entire ship’s company were transferred to
the shore; and the vessel was given up to the quarantine
officers, who boarded her and proceeded with their
work. In a couple of hours the steamer and her crew
were disposed of; and then came the turn of the
Josephine, for only one vessel could be treated at a
time.

When all hands were mustered on board of the
Tritonia, the two delinquents in the brig were let out
to undergo the inspection with the others. The decision
of the health officer requiring the vessels to be
fumigated, and the fact that the process would require
but a few hours, were passed through each of the
schooners as well as the steamer, and in a short time
were known to every student in the fleet. As usual they
were disposed to make fun of the situation, though it
was quite a sensation for the time. During the excitement
Bark Lingall improved the opportunity to confer
with Lon Gibbs and Ben Pardee. Lon was willing to
undertake any thing that Bark suggested. Ben was
rather a prudent fellow, but soon consented to take part
in the enterprise. Certainly neither of these worthies
would have assented if the proposition to join had been
made by Bill Stout, in whom they had as little confidence
as Bark had manifested. The alliance had
hardly been agreed upon before the vice–principal happened
to see the four marines talking together, and
ordered Marline to recommit two of them to the brig.
The boatswain locked them into their prison, and left
them to their own reflections. The excitement on deck
was still unabated, and the cabins and steerage were
deserted even by the stewards.

“I think our time has come,” said Bill Stout, after
he had satisfied himself that no one but the occupants
of the brig was in the steerage. “If we don’t strike
at once we shall lose our chance, for they say we are
going up to the city to–night.”

“They will have to let us out to be fumigated with
the rest of the crew,” answered Bark Lingall. “We
haven’t drawn lots yet, either.”

“Never mind the lot now: I will do the job myself,”
replied Bill magnanimously. “I should rather like the
fun of it.”

“All right, though I am willing to take my chances.
I won’t back out of any thing.”

“You are true blue, Bark, when you get started; but
I would rather do the thing than not.”

“Very well, I am willing; and when the scratch
comes I will back you up. But I do not see how you
are going to manage it, Bill,” added Bark, looking about
him in the brig.

“The vice has made an easy thing of it for us.
While the fellows were all on deck, I went to my berth
and got a little box of matches I bought in Genoa
when we were there. I have it in my pocket now.
All I have to do is to take off this scuttle, and go down
into the hold. As we don’t know how soon the fellows
will be sent ashore, I think I had better be about it
now.”

Bill Stout put his fingers into the ring on the trap–door,
and lifted it a little way.

“Hold on, Bill,” interposed Bark. “You are altogether
too fast. When Marline comes down to let us
out, where shall I say you are?”

“That’s so: I didn’t think of that,” added Bill, looking
rather foolish. “He will see the scuttle, and know
just where I am.”

“And, when the blaze comes off, he will see just who
started it,” continued Bark. “That won’t do anyhow.”

“But I don’t mean to give it up,” said Bill, scratching
his head as he labored to devise a better plan.

The difficulty was discussed for some time, but there
seemed to be no way of meeting it. Bill was one of
the crew of the second cutter, and he was sure to be
missed when the ship’s company were piped away. If
Bark, who did not belong to any boat, took his oar,
the boatswain, whose place was in the second cutter
when all hands left the vessel, would notice the change.
Bill was almost in despair, and insisted that no amount
of brains could overcome the difficulty. The conspirator
who was to “do the job” was certain to be missed
when the ship’s company took to the boats. To be
missed was to proclaim who the incendiary was when
the fire was investigated.

“We may as well give it up for the present, and wait
for a better time,” suggested Bark, who was as unable
as his companion to solve the problem.

“No, I won’t,” replied Bill, taking a newspaper from
his breast–pocket. “We may never have another
chance; and I believe in striking while the iron is
hot.”

“Don’t get us into a scrape for nothing. We can’t
do any thing now,” protested Bark.

“Now’s the day, and now’s the hour!” exclaimed
Bill, scowling like the villain of a melodrama.

“What are you going to do?” demanded Bark, a
little startled by the sudden energy of his fellow–conspirator.

“Hold on, and you shall see,” answered Bill, as he
raised the trap–door over the scuttle.

“But stop, Bill! you were not to do any thing without
my consent.”

“All hands on deck! man the boats in fire order,”
yelled the boatswain on deck, after he had blown the
proper pipe.

Bill Stout paid no attention to the call or to the
remonstrance of his companion. Raising the trap, he
descended to the hold by the ladder under the scuttle.
Striking a match, he set fire to the newspaper in his
hand, and then cast it into the heap of hay and sawdust
that lay near the foot of the ladder. Hastily
throwing the box–covers and cases on the pile, he
rushed up the steps into the brig, and closed the scuttle.
He was intensely excited, and Bark was really
terrified at what he considered the insane rashness of
his associate in crime. But there was no time for
further talk; for Marline appeared at this moment, and
unlocked the door of the brig.

“Come, my hearties, you must go on shore for an
hour to have the smallpox smoked out of you; and I
wish they could smoke out some of the mischief that’s
in you at the same time,” said the adult boatswain.
“Come, and bear a hand lively, for all hands are in
boats by this time.”

Bill Stout led the way; and on this occasion he
needed no hurrying, for he was in haste to get away
from the vessel before the blaze revealed itself. In a
moment more he was on the thwart in the second
cutter where he belonged. Bark’s place was in another
boat, and they separated when they reached the deck.
The fire–bill assigned every person on board of the
vessel to a place in one of the boats, so that every
professor and steward as well as every officer and
seaman knew where to go without any orders. It was
the arrangement for leaving the ship in case of fire; and
it had worked with perfect success in the Young America
when she was sunk by the collision with the Italian
steamer. As the boats pulled away from the Tritonia,
the quarantine people boarded her to perform the
duty belonging to them.

Bill Stout endeavored to compose himself, but with
little success, though the general excitement prevented
his appearance from being noticed. He was not so
hardened in crime that he could see the vessel on fire
without being greatly disturbed by the act; and it was
more than probable that, by this time, he was sorry he
had done it. He did not expect the fire to break out
for some little time; and it had not occurred to him
that the quarantine people would extend their operation
to the hold of the vessel.

The boats landed on the beach; and all hands were
marched up to a kind of tent, a short distance from the
water. There were fifty–five of them, and they were
divided into two squads for the fumigating process.

“How is this thing to be done?” asked Scott, as he
halted by the side of Raimundo, at the tent.

“I have not the least idea what it is all about,”
replied the young Spaniard.

“I suppose we are to take up our quarters in this
tent.”

“Not for very long; for all the rest of the squadron
have been operated upon in a couple of hours.”

The health officer now beckoned them to enter the
tent. It was of the shape of a one–story house. The
canvas on the sides and end was tacked down to heavy
planks on the ground, so as to make it as tight as possible.
There was only a small door; and, when the first
squad had entered, it was carefully closed, so that the
interior seemed to be almost air–tight. In the centre of
the tent was a large tin pan, which contained some
chemical ingredient. The health officer then poured
another ingredient into the pan; and the union of the
two created quite a tempest, a dense smoke or vapor
rising from the vessel, which immediately filled the tent.

“Whew!” whistled Scott, as he inhaled the vapor.
“These Spaniards ought to have a patent for getting up
a bad smell. This can’t be beat, even by the city of
Chicago.”

“I am glad you think my countrymen are good for
something,” laughed Raimundo.

The students coughed, sneezed, and made all the fuss
that was necessary, and a good deal more. The health
officer laughed at the antics of the party, and dismissed
them in five minutes, cleansed from all taint of smallpox
or yellow fever.

“Where’s your blaze?” asked Bark Lingall, as they
withdrew from the others who had just left the tent.

“Hush up! don’t say a word about it,” whispered
Bill; “it hasn’t got a–going yet.”

“But those quarantine folks are on board; and if
there were any fire there they would have seen it
before this time,” continued Bark nervously.

“Dry up! not another word! If we are seen talking
together the vice will know that we are at the bottom
of the matter.”

Bill Stout shook off his companion, and walked about
with as much indifference as he could assume. Every
minute or two he glanced at the Tritonia, expecting to
see the flames, or at least the smoke, rising above her
decks. But no flame or smoke appeared, not even the
vapor of the disinfectants.

The second squad of the ship’s company were sent
into the tent after the preparations were completed;
and in the course of an hour the health officer gave the
vice–principal permission to return to his vessel. The
boats were manned; the professors and others took
their places, and the bowmen shoved off. Bill began
to wonder where his blaze was, for ample time had
elapsed for the flames to envelop the schooner, if she
was to burn at all. Still there was no sign of fire or
smoke about the beautiful craft. She rested on the
water as lightly and as trimly as ever. Bill could not
understand it; but he came to the conclusion that the
quarantine men had extinguished the flames. The
burning of the vessel did not rest upon his conscience,
it is true; but he was not satisfied, as he probably
would not have been if the Tritonia had been destroyed.
He felt as though he had attempted to do a big thing,
and had failed. He was not quite the hero he intended
to be in the estimation of his fellow–conspirators.

The four boats of the Tritonia came alongside the
schooner; and, when the usual order of things had been
fully restored, the signal for sailing appeared on the
steamer. The odor of the chemicals remained in the
cabin and steerage for a time; but the circulation of
the air soon removed it. It was four o’clock in the
afternoon; and, in order to enable the students to see
what they might of the city as the fleet went up to the
port, the lessons were not resumed. The fore–topsail,
jib, and mainsail were set, the anchor weighed, and the
Tritonia followed the Prince in charge of a pilot who
had presented himself as soon as the fumigation was
completed.

“You belong in the cage,” said Marline, walking
up to the two conspirators, as soon as the schooner
began to gather headway.

Bill and Bark followed the boatswain to the steerage,
and were locked into the brig.

“Here we are again,” said Bark, when Marline had
returned to the deck. “I did not expect when we left,
to come back again.”

“Neither did I; and I don’t understand it,” replied
Bill, with a sheepish look. “I certainly fixed things
right for something different. I lighted the newspaper,
and put it under the hay, sawdust, and boxes. I was
sure there would be a blaze in fifteen minutes. I can’t
explain it; and I am going down to see how it was.”

“Not now: some one will see you,” added Bark.

“No; everybody is looking at the sights. Besides,
as the thing has failed, I want to fix things so that no
one will suspect any thing if the pile of hay and stuff
should be overhauled.”

Bark made no further objection, and his companion
hastened down the ladder. Pulling over the pile of
rubbish, he found the newspaper he had ignited.
Only a small portion of it was burned, and it was
evident that the flame had been smothered when the
boxes and covers had been thrown on the heap. Nothing
but the newspaper bore the marks of the fire; and,
putting this into his pocket, he returned to the brig.

“I shall do better than that next time,” said he,
when he had explained to Bark the cause of the failure.

Bill Stout was as full of plans and expedients as
ever; and, before the anchor went down, he was willing
to believe that “the job” could be better done at
another time.



CHAPTER III.

A GRANDEE OF SPAIN.


The port, or harbor, of Barcelona is formed by an
inlet of the sea. A triangular tongue of land,
with a long jetty projecting from its southern point,
shelters it from the violence of the sea, except on the
south–east. On the widest part of the tongue of land
is the suburb of Barceloneta, or Little Barcelona, inhabited
by sailors and other lower orders of people.

“I can just remember the city as it was when I left
it in a steamer to go to Marseilles, about ten years ago,”
said Raimundo, as he and Scott stood on the lee side
of the quarter–deck, looking at the objects of interest
that were presented to them. “It does not seem to
have changed much.”

“It don’t look any more like Spain than the rest of
the world,” added the lieutenant.

“This hill on the left is Monjuich, seven hundred
and fifty–five feet high. It has a big fort on the
top of it, which commands the town as well as the
harbor. The city is a walled town, with redoubts all
the way around it. The walls take in the citadel, which
you see above the head of the harbor. The city was
founded by Hamilcar more than two hundred years
before Christ, and afterwards became a Roman colony.
There is lots of history connected with the city, but I
will not bore you with it.”

“Thank you for your good intentions,” laughed Scott.
“But how is it that you don’t care to see the people of
your native city after an absence of ten years?”

“I don’t care about having this story told all through
the ship, Scott,” replied the young Spaniard, glancing
at the students on deck.

“Of course I will not mention it, if you say so.”

“I have always kept it to myself, though I have no
strong reason for doing so; and I would not say any
thing about it now if I did not feel the need of a friend.
I am sure I can rely on you, Scott.”

“When I can do any thing for you, Don, you may
depend upon me; and not a word shall ever pass my
lips till you request it.”

“I don’t know but you will think I am laying out the
plot of a novel, like the story of Giulia Fabiano, whom
O’Hara assisted to a happy conclusion,” replied Raimundo,
with a smile. “I couldn’t help thinking of my
own case when her history was related to me; for, so
far, the situations are very much the same.”

“I have seen all I want to of the outside of Barcelona;
and if you like, we will go down into the cabin where
we shall be alone for the present,” suggested Scott.

“That will suit me better,” answered Raimundo, as
he followed his companion.

“We shall be out of hearing of everybody here, I
think,” said Scott, as he seated himself in the after–part
of the cabin.

“There is not much romance in the story yet; and I
don’t know that there ever will be,” continued the Spaniard.
“It is a family difficulty; and such things are
never pleasant to me, however romantic they may be.”

“Well, Don, I don’t want you to tell the story for my
sake; and don’t harrow up your feelings to gratify my
curiosity,” protested Scott.

“I shall want your advice, and perhaps your assistance;
and for this reason only I shall tell you all about
it. Here goes. My grandfather was a Spanish merchant
of the city of Barcelona; and when he was fifty
years old he had made a fortune of two hundred and
fifty thousand dollars, which is a big pile of money in
Spain. He had three sons, and a strong weakness, as
our friend O’Hara would express it. I suppose you
know something about the grandees of Spain, Scott?”

“Not a thing,” replied the third lieutenant candidly.
“I have heard the word, and I know they are the
nobles of Spain; and that’s all I know.”

“That’s about all any ordinary outsider would be
expected to know about them. There is altogether too
much nobility and too little money in Spain. Some of
the grandees are still very rich and powerful; but physically
and financially the majority of them are played
out. I am sorry to say it, but laziness is a national
peculiarity: I am a Spaniard, and I will not call it by
any hard names. Pride and vanity go with it. There
are plenty of poor men who are too proud to work, or
to engage in business of any kind. Of course such
men do not get on very well; and, the longer they live,
the poorer they grow. This is especially the case with
the played–out nobility.

“My grandfather was the son of a grandee who had
lost all his property. He was a Castilian, with pride
and dignity enough to fit out half a dozen Americans.
He would rather have starved than do any sort of
business. My grandfather, though it appears that he
gloried in the title of the grandee, was not quite willing
to be starved on his patrimonial acres. His stomach
conquered his pride. He was the elder son; and while
he was a young man his father died, leaving him the
empty title, with nothing to support its dignity. I have
been told that he actually suffered from hunger. He
had no brothers; and his sisters were all married to one–horse
nobles like himself. He was alone in his ruined
castle.

“Without telling any of his people where he was
going, he journeyed to Barcelona, where, being a young
man of good parts, he obtained a situation as a clerk.
In time he became a merchant, and a very prosperous
one. As soon as his circumstances would admit, he
married, and had three sons. As he grew older, the
Castilian pride of birth came back to him, and he began
to think about the title he had dropped when he
became a merchant. He desired to found a family
with wealth as well as a name. He was still the Count
de Escarabajosa.”

“Of what?” asked Scott.

“The Count de Escarabajosa,” repeated Raimundo.

“Well, I don’t blame him for dropping his title if he
had to carry as long a name as that around with him.
It was a heavy load for him, poor man!”

“The title was not of much account, according to my
Uncle Manuel, who told me the story; for my grandfather
was only a second or third class grandee—not
one of the first, who were allowed to speak to the king
with their hats on. At any rate, I think my grandfather
did wisely not to think much of his title till his fortune
was made. His oldest son, Enrique, was my father;
and that’s my name also.”

“Yours? Are you not entered in the ship’s books
as Henry;” interposed Scott.

“No; but Enrique is the Spanish for Henry. When
my grandfather died, he bequeathed his fortune to my
father, who also inherited his title, though he gave the
other two sons enough to enable them to make a start
in business. If my father should die without any male
heir, the fortune, consisting largely of houses, lands,
and farms, in and near Barcelona, was to go to the
second son, whose name was Alejandro. In like manner
the fortune was to pass to the third son, if the second
died without a male heir. This was Spanish law,
as well as the will of my grandfather. Two years after
the death of my grandfather, and when I was about six
years old, my father died. I was his only child. You
will see, Scott, that under the will of my grandfather I
was the heir of the fortune, and the title too for that
matter, though it is of no account.”

“Then, Don, you are the Count de What–ye–call–it?”
said Scott, taking off his cap, and bowing low to the
young grandee.

“The Count de Escarabajosa,” laughed Raimundo;
“but I would not have the fellows on board know this
for the world; and this is one reason why I wanted to
have my story kept a secret.”

“Not a word from me. But I shall hardly dare to
speak to you without taking off my cap. The Count de
Scaribagiosa! My eyes! what a long tail our cat has
got!”

“That’s it! I can see just what would happen if you
should spin this yarn to the crowd,” added the grandee,
shaking his head.

“But I won’t open my mouth till you command me
to do so. What would Captain Wainwright say if he
only knew that he had a Spanish grandee under his
orders? He might faint.”

“Don’t give him an opportunity.”

“I won’t. But spin out the yarn: I am interested.”

“My father died when I was only six; and my Uncle
Alejandro was appointed my guardian by due process
of law. Now, I don’t want to say a word against Don
Alejandro, and I would not if the truth did not compel
me to do so. My Uncle Manuel, who lives in New
York, is my authority; and I give you the facts just as
he gave them to me only a year before I left home to
join the ship. Don Alejandro took me to his own
house as soon as he was appointed my guardian. To
make a long story short, he was a bad man, and he did
not treat me well. I was rather a weakly child at six,
and I stood between my uncle and my grandfather’s
large fortune. If I died, Don Alejandro would inherit
the estate. My Uncle Manuel insists that he did all he
could, short of murdering me in cold blood, to help me
out of the world. I remember how ill he treated me,
but I was too young to understand the meaning of his
conduct.

“My Uncle Manuel was not so fortunate in business
as his father had been, though he saved the capital my
grandfather had bequeathed to him. The agency of a
large mercantile house in Barcelona was offered to him
if he would go to America; and he promptly decided to
seek his fortune in New York. Manuel had quarrelled
with Alejandro on account of the latter’s treatment of
me; and a great many hard words passed between them.
But Manuel was so well satisfied in regard to Alejandro’s
intentions, that he dared not leave me in the keeping
of his brother when he went to the New World. Though
it was a matter of no small difficulty, he decided to take
me with him to New York.

“I did not like my Uncle Alejandro, and I did like
my Uncle Manuel. I was willing to go anywhere with
the latter; and when he called to bid farewell to my
guardian, on the eve of his departure, he beckoned to
me as he went out of the house. I followed him, and
he managed to conceal his object from the servants;
for my Uncle Alejandro did not attend him to the front
door. He had arranged a more elaborate plan to obtain
possession of me; but when he saw me in the hall,
he was willing to adopt the simpler method that was
then suggested to him. His baggage was on board of
the steamer for Marseilles, and he had no difficulty in
conveying me to the vessel. I was kept out of sight in
the state–room till the steamer was well on her way. I
will not trouble you with what I remember of the journey;
but in less than three weeks we were in New
York, which has been my home ever since.”

“But what did your guardian say to all this?” asked
Scott. “Did he discover what had become of you?”

“I don’t know what he said; but he has been at work
for seven years to obtain possession of me. As I disappeared
at the same time my Uncle Manuel left, no
doubt Alejandro suspected what had become of me.
At any rate, he sent an agent to New York to bring me
back to Spain; but Manuel kept me out of the way.
As soon as I could speak English well enough, he sent
me to a boarding–school. I ‘cut up’ so that he was
obliged to take me away, and send me to another. I
am sorry to say that I did no better, and was sent to
half a dozen different schools in the course of three
years. I was active, and full of mischief; but I grew
into a strong and healthy boy from a very puny and
sickly one.

“At last my uncle sent me on board of the academy
ship; but he told me before I went, that if I did not
learn my lessons, and behave myself like a gentleman,
he would send me back to my Uncle Alejandro in
Spain. He would no longer attempt to keep me out
of the way of my legal guardian. Partly on account
of this threat, and partly because I like the institution,
I have done as well as I could.”

“And no one has done any better,” added Scott.

“No doubt my Uncle Manuel has received good accounts
of me from the principal, for he has been very
kind to me. He wrote to me, after I had informed him
that the squadron was going to Spain, that I must not
go there; but he added that I was almost man grown,
and ought to be able to take care of myself. I thought
so too: at any rate, I have taken the chances in coming
here.”

“But you are a minor; and I suppose Don Alejandro,
if he can get hold of you, will have the right to take
possession of your _corpus_.”

“No doubt of that.”

“But does your guardian know that you are a student
in the academy squadron?” asked Scott.

“I don’t know: it is not impossible, or even improbable.
Alejandro has had agents out seeking me, and
they may have ascertained where I am. For aught I
know, my guardian may have made his arrangements to
capture me as soon as the fleet comes to anchor. But
I don’t mean to be captured; for I should have no
chance in a Spanish court, backed by the principal, the
American minister, and the counsel. By law I belong
to my guardian; and that is the whole of it. Now,
Scott, you are the best friend I have on this side of the
Atlantic; and I want you to help me.”

“That I will do with all my might and main, Don,”
protested Scott.

“I don’t ask you to tell any lies, or to do any thing
wrong,” said Raimundo.

“What can I do for you? that’s the question.”

“I shall keep out of sight while the vessels are at
this port; and I want you to be on the lookout for any
Spaniards in search of a young man named Raimundo,
and let me know. When you go on shore, I
want you to find out all you can about my Uncle Alejandro.
If I should happen to run away at any time,
_you_ will know, if no one else does, why I did so.”

“Don’t you think it would be a good thing to tell
the vice–principal your story, and ask him to help you
out in case of any trouble?” suggested Scott.

“No: that would not do. If Mr. Pelham should do
any thing to help me keep out of the way, he would be
charged with breaking or evading the Spanish laws;
and that would get him into trouble. I ought not to
have come here; but now I must take the responsibility,
and not shove it off on the vice–principal.”

“Who pays your bills, Don?”

“My Uncle Manuel, of course. He has a half interest
in the house for which he went out as an agent;
and I suppose he is worth more money to–day than his
father ever was. He is as liberal as he is rich. He
sent me a second letter of credit for a hundred pounds
when we were at Leghorn; and I drew half of it in
Genoa in gold, so as to be ready for any thing that
might happen in Spain.”

“Do you really expect that your uncle will make a
snap at you?” asked Scott, with no little anxiety in his
expression.

“I have no knowledge whatever in regard to his
movements. I know that he has sent agents to the
United States to look me up, and that my Uncle
Manuel has had sharp work to keep me out of their
way. I have been bundled out of New York in the
middle of the night to keep me from being kidnapped
by his emissaries; for my uncle has never believed that
he had any case in law, even in the States.”

“It is really quite a serious matter to you, Don.”

“Serious? You know that my countrymen have the
reputation of using knives when occasion requires; and
I also know that Don Alejandro has not a good character
in Barcelona.”

“But suppose you went back to him: do you believe
he would ill–treat you now?”

“No, I don’t. I have grown to be too big a fellow
to be abused like a child. I think I could take care of
myself, so far as that is concerned. But my uncle has
been nursing his wrath for years on account of my
absence. He has sons of his own, who are living on
my property; for I learn that Alejandro has done nothing
to increase the small sum his father left him. He
and his sons want my fortune. I might be treated with
the utmost kindness and consideration, if I returned; but
that would not convince me that I was not in constant
peril. Spain is not England or the United States, and
I have read a great deal about my native land,” said
Raimundo, shaking his head. “I agree with my uncle
Manuel, that I must not risk myself in the keeping of
my guardian.”

“Suppose Don Alejandro should come on board as
soon as we anchor, Don: what could you do? You
would not be in condition to run away. Where could
you go?” inquired Scott.

“I know just what I should do; but I will not put
you in condition to be tempted to tell any lies,” replied
Raimundo, smiling. “One thing more: I shall not be
safe anywhere in Spain. My uncle does not want me
for any love he bears me; and it would answer his
purpose just as well if I should be drowned in crossing
a river, fall off any high place, or be knifed in some
lonely corner. There are still men enough in Spain
who use the knife, though the country is safe under
ordinary circumstances.”

“Upon my word, I shall be hardly willing to let you
go out of my sight,” added Scott. “I shall have to
take you under my protection.”

“I am afraid your protection will not do me much
good, except in the way I have indicated.”

“Well, you may be sure I will do all I can to serve
and save you,” continued Scott, taking the hand of his
friend, as the movements on deck indicated that the
schooner was ready to anchor.

“Thank you, Scott; thank you. With your help, I
shall feel that I am almost out of danger.”

Raimundo decided to remain in the cabin, as his
watch was not called; but Scott went on deck, as much
to look out for any suspicious Spaniards, as for the
purpose of seeing what was to be seen. The American
Prince had already anchored; and her two consorts
immediately followed her example. The sails were
hardly furled, and every thing made snug, before the
signal, “All hands attend lecture,” appeared on the
flag–ship.

All the vessels of the fleet were surrounded by boats
from the shore, most of them to take passengers to the
city. The adult forward officers were stationed at the
gangways, to prevent any persons from coming on
board; and the boatmen were informed that no one
would go on shore that night. Scott hastened below,
to tell his friend that all hands were ordered on board
of the steamer to attend the lecture. Raimundo declared,
that, as no one could possibly recognize him
after so many years of absence, he should go on board
of the Prince, with the rest of the ship’s company.

The boats were lowered; and in a short time all
the students were assembled in the grand saloon, where
Professor Mapps was ready to discourse upon the
geography and history of Spain.



CHAPTER IV.

THE PROFESSOR’S TALK ABOUT SPAIN.


As usual, the professor had a large map posted
where all could see it. It was a map of Spain
and Portugal in this instance, in which the physical as
well as the political features of the peninsula were exhibited.
The instructor pointed at the map, and commenced
his lecture.

“The ancient name of Spain was _Iberia_; the Latin,
_Hispania_. The Spaniards call their country _España_.
Notice the mark over the _n_ in this word, which gives it
the value of _ny_, the same as the French _gn_. You will
find it in many Spanish words.

“With Portugal, Spain forms a peninsula whose
greatest length, from east to west, is six hundred and
twenty miles; and, from north to south, five hundred
and forty miles. It is separated from the rest of
Europe by the Pyrenees Mountains: they extend quite
across the isthmus, which is two hundred and forty
miles wide. It contains two hundred and fourteen
thousand square miles, of which one hundred and
seventy–eight thousand belong to Spain, and thirty–six
thousand to Portugal. Spain is not quite four times as
large as the State of New York; and Portugal is a
little larger than the State of Maine.

“Spain has nearly fourteen hundred miles of seacoast,
four–sevenths of which is on the Mediterranean.
Spain is a mountainous country. About one–half of its
area is on the great central plateau, from two to three
thousand feet above the level of the sea. The mountain
ranges, you observe, extend mostly east and west,
which gives the rivers, of course, the same general
direction. The Cantabrian and the Pyrenees are the
same range, the former extending along the northern
coast to the Atlantic. Between this range and the
Sierra Guadarrama are the valleys of the Duero and
the Ebro. This range reaches nearly from the mouth
of the Tagus to the mouth of the Ebro, and takes
several names in different parts of the peninsula.
The mountains of Toledo are about in the centre of
Spain. South of these are the Sierra Morena, with the
basin of the Guadiana on the north and that of the
Guadalquiver on the south. Near the southern coast
is the Sierra Nevada, which contains the Cerro de
Mulahacen, 11,678 feet, the highest peak in the peninsula.
_Sierra_ means a saw, which a chain of mountains
may resemble; though some say it comes from the
Arabic word _Sehrah_, meaning wild land.

“There are two hundred and thirty rivers in Spain;
but only six of them need be mentioned. The Minho
is in the north–west, and separates Spain and Portugal
for about forty miles. It is one hundred and thirty
miles long, and navigable for thirty. The Duero,
called the Douro in Portugal, has a course of four hundred
miles, about two–thirds of which is in Spain. It
is navigable through Portugal, and a little way into
Spain, though only for boats. The Tagus is the longest
river of the peninsula, five hundred and forty miles.
It is navigable only to Abrantes in Portugal, about
eighty miles; though Philip II. built several boats at
Toledo, loaded them with grain, and sent them down
to Lisbon. The Guadiana is in the south–west, three
hundred and eighty miles long, and navigable only
thirty–five. Near its source this river, like the Rhone
and some others, indulges in the odd freak of disappearing,
and flowing through an underground channel
for twenty miles. The river loses itself gradually in an
expanse of marshes, and re–appears in the form of
several small lakes, which are called ‘los ojos de la
Guadiana,’—the eyes of the Guadiana.

“The Guadalquiver is two hundred and eighty miles
long, and, like all the rivers I have mentioned, flows
into the Atlantic. It is navigable to Cordova, and
large vessels go up to Seville. The Ebro is the only
large river that flows into the Mediterranean. It is
three hundred and forty miles long, and is navigable
for boats about half this distance. Great efforts have
been made to improve the navigation of some of these
rivers, especially the largest of them. There are no
lakes of any consequence in Spain, the largest being a
mere lagoon on the seashore near Valencia.

“Spain has a population of sixteen millions, which
places it as the tenth in rank among the nations of
Europe. In territorial extent it is the seventh. It is
said that Spain, as a Roman province, had a population
of forty millions.

“Spain, including the Balearic and Canary Islands,
contains forty–nine provinces, each of which has its
local government, and its representation in the national
legislature, or _Cortes_. But you should know something
of the old divisions, since these are often mentioned in
the history of the country. There are fourteen of them,
each of which was formerly a kingdom, principality, or
province. Castile was the largest, including Old and
New Castile, and was in the north–central part of the
peninsula. This was the realm of Isabella; and, by her
marriage with Ferdinand, it was united with Aragon,
lying next east of it. East of Aragon, forming the
north–east corner of Spain, is Catalonia, of which
Barcelona is the chief city. North of Castile, on or
near the Bay of Biscay, are the three Basque provinces.
Bordering the Pyrenees, nearest to France, is the little
kingdom of Navarre, with Aragon on the east. Forming
the north–western corner of the peninsula is the
kingdom of Galicia. East of it, on the Bay of Biscay,
is the principality of the Asturias. South of this, and
between Castile and Portugal, is the kingdom of Leon,
which was attached to Castile in the eleventh century.
Estremadura is between Portugal and New Castile.
La Mancha, the country of Don Quixote, is south of
New Castile. Valencia and Murcia are on the east,
bordering on the Mediterranean. Andalusia is on both
sides of the Guadalquiver, including the three modern
provinces of Seville, Cordova, and Jaen. Granada is
in the south, on the Mediterranean. You will hear the
different parts of Spain spoken of under these names
more than any other.

“The principal vegetable productions of Spain are
those of the vine and olive. The export of wine is ten
million dollars; and of olive–oil, four millions. Raisins,
flour, cork, wool, and brandy are other important
exports, to say nothing of the fruits of the South, such
as grapes and oranges. Silver, quicksilver, lead, and
iron are the most valuable minerals. Silk is produced
in Valencia, Murcia, and Granada.

“The climate of Spain, as you would suppose from
its mountainous character, is very various. The north,
which is in the latitude of New England, is very
different from this region of our own country. On the
table–lands of the centre, it is hot in summer and cold
in winter. In the south, the weather is hot in summer,
but very mild in winter. Even here in Barcelona, the
mercury seldom goes down to the freezing point. The
average winter temperature of Malaga is about fifty–five
degrees Fahrenheit.

“Three thousand miles of railroad have been built,
and two thousand miles more have been projected.
One can go to all the principal cities in Spain now by
rail from Madrid; and those on the seacoast are connected
by several lines of steamers.

“The army consists of one hundred and fifty thousand
men, and may be increased in time of war by calling
out the reserves; for every man over twenty is
liable to do military duty. The navy consists of one
hundred and ten vessels, seventy–three of which are
screw steamers, twenty–four paddle steamers, and thirteen
sailing vessels. Seven of the screws are iron–clad
frigates. They are manned by thirteen thousand sailors
and marines; and this navy is therefore quite formidable.

“The government is a constitutional monarchy. The
king executes the laws through his ministers, but is not
held responsible for any thing. If things do not work
well, the ministers are to bear the blame, and his
Majesty may dismiss them at pleasure. The laws are
made by the _Cortes_, which consists of two bodies, the
Senate and the Congress. Any Spaniard who is of age,
and not deprived of his civil rights, may be a member
of the _Congreso_, or lower house. Four senators are
elected for each province. They must be forty years
old, be in possession of their civil rights, and must have
held some high office under the government in the army
or navy, in the church, or in certain educational institutions.

“The present king is Amedeo I., second son of Vittorio
Emanuele, king of Italy. He was elected king of
Spain Nov. 16, 1870.[1]

“All but sixty thousand of the population of Spain
are Roman Catholics; and of this faith is the national
church, though all other forms of worship are tolerated.
In 1835 and in 1836 the _Cortes_ suppressed all conventual
institutions, and confiscated their property for the
benefit of the nation. In 1833 there were in Spain one
hundred and seventy–five thousand ecclesiastics of all
descriptions, including monks and nuns. In 1862 this
number had been reduced to about forty thousand,
which exhibits the effect of the legislation of the _Cortes_.
The archbishop of Toledo is the head of the Church,
primate of Spain.

“Though there are ten universities in Spain some of
them very ancient and very celebrated, the population
of Spain have been in a state of extreme ignorance till
quite a recent period. At the beginning of the present
century, it was rare to find a peasant or an ordinary
workman who could read. Efforts have been put forth
since 1812 to promote popular education; but with no
great success, till within the last forty years. In 1868
there were a million and a quarter of pupils in the public
and private schools; and not more than one in ten
of the population are unable to read. But the sum
expended for public education in Spain is less per
annum than the city of Boston devotes to this object.

“Money values in Spain are generally reckoned in
_reales_, a _real_ being five cents of our money. This is
the unit of the system. The _Isabelino_, or Isabel as it
is generally called, is a gold coin worth one hundred
_reales_, or five dollars. A _peso_, or _duro_, is the same as
our dollar: it is a silver coin. The _escudo_ is half a
dollar. The _peseta_ is twenty cents; the half _peseta_ is
ten. The _real_ is the smallest silver coin. Of the copper
coins, the _medio real_ means half a real. You will
see a small copper coin stamped ‘1 _centimo de escudo_,’
which means one hundredth of an _escudo_, or half dollar.
It is the tenth of a _real_, or half a cent. Then
there is the _doble decima_, worth one cent; and the
_medio decima_, worth a quarter of a cent. But probably
you will not hear any of these copper coins mentioned.
Instead of them the small money will be counted in
_cuartos_, eight and a half of them making a real. An
American cent, an English halfpenny, a French sou,
or any other copper coin of any nation, and about the
same size, will go for a _cuarto_. A _maravedis_ is an
imaginary value, four of which were equal to a _cuarto_.
It is used in poetry and plays; and, though there is no
such coin, any piece of base metal, even a button, will
pass for a _maravedis_. There is a vast quantity of bad
money in circulation in Spain, especially of the gold
coins; and the traveller should be on the lookout for it.
There are also a great many counterfeit _escudos_, or half–dollars.
Travellers should have nothing to do with
paper money, as it is not good away from the locality
where it is issued.

“Having said all that occurs to me on these general
topics, I shall now ask your attention to the history of
Spain, which is very interesting to the student, though
I am obliged to make it quite brief. I hope you have
read the historical writings of our own Prescott, which
are more attractive than the novels of the day. If you
have not read these works, do so before you are a year
older; and here in Spain is the time for you to begin.

“Recent events have called an unusual amount of
attention to the Spanish peninsula; and this unhappy
country has long been in so uneasy a state that a revolution
surprises very few. Spain has had its full share,
both of the smiles and the frowns of fortune. It was
as widely known in early ages for its wealth, as it has
been in modern times for its beggars.

“Nearly three thousand years ago, the Phœnicians
began to plant colonies in the South of Spain. They
found the country abounding with silver. So plenty,
indeed, was the silver ore, that, according to one
account, they not only loaded their fleet with it, but
they returned home with their anchors and the commonest
implements made of the same precious metal.

“This is doubtless an exaggeration; but we have
reason to believe that silver was more abundant in
Spain than in any other quarter of the ancient world.
Few silver–mines were known in Asia in those days:
yet an immense quantity of silver was in circulation
there during the flourishing period of the Persian empire.
Herodotus tells us that in the reign of Darius,
son of Hystaspes, all the nations under the yoke of the
Persians, except the Indians and the Ethiopians, paid
their tribute in silver. A large portion of this was
obtained from the Phœnicians, and was distributed
through Asia by the traders who came to Tyre. The
Carthaginians also drew uncounted treasures in silver
from Spain. When Carthagina was taken from them
by Scipio, the portion of the precious metals that went
into the Roman treasury was eighteen thousand three
hundred pounds in weight of silver, two hundred and
seventy–six golden cups each weighing a pound, and
silver vessels without number. Near this city is a
silver–mine which is said to have employed forty thousand
workmen, and which paid the Romans nearly two
million dollars annually. Another mine in the Pyrenees
furnished to the Carthaginians in Hannibal’s time
three hundred pounds every day. The quantities of
gold and silver brought into the public treasury by the
Roman consuls who subjugated the different parts of
the Spanish peninsula were enormous. Still the
country was not exhausted; for it was almost as highly
favored in soil and climate as in its mineral treasures.
‘Next to Italy, if I except the fabulous regions of India,
I would rank Spain,’ wrote Pliny in the first century of
our era. At that time the country contained four hundred
and nine cities; and there was not within the
Roman empire a province where the people were more
industrious or more prosperous. How strongly this
account contrasts with the history of modern Spain!
When the Spanish monarchs were aspiring to rule the
world, in the sixteenth century, the streets of their
cities were overrun with beggars. Only a century ago,
the number of people in Spain who were without shirts,
because they were too poor to buy such a luxury, was
estimated at three millions, or one–third of the population
of the kingdom. Within a hundred years, however,
in spite of numerous drawbacks, the wealth of
the country has vastly increased, and the population
has nearly doubled.

“The Spaniards are the descendants of various
races, tribes, and nations. At the dawn of history, we
find the country in possession of the Iberians and
Celts. Of the Iberians we know but little. From
them Spain received its ancient name, Iberia; and the
Iberus River, now the Ebro, took the name by which,
with slight changes, it is still known. The language
of the Iberians is supposed to survive in that of the
Basque provinces of Biscaya, Guipuzcoa, and Alava,
which I located a few moments since.

“The Celts, who a little more than two thousand
years ago had not lost possession of Northern Italy
and the countries now known as England, Scotland,
and Ireland, drove the Iberians from the South of
France and from the north–western part of Spain, in
very early times. In the centre of the latter country
these people united, and were afterwards known as
Celt–Iberians.

“About a thousand years before Christ, the Phœnicians
began to build towns on the southern coast of
Spain; and, a century or two later, colonies were established
on the eastern coast by the Rhodians and by
other Greeks. Cadiz, Malaga, and Cordova were Phœnician
towns; and Rhodos and Saguntum—now Rosas
and Murviedro—were among those founded by the
Greeks.

“Carthage was founded by the Tyrians; but the
Carthaginians did not allow relationship to stand in
the way of gain or conquest. Nearly six hundred
years before our era, they found an opportunity to
supplant the Phœnicians in Spain; and in the course
of two centuries and a half they had brought under
their sway a large portion of the country. At length
the Greek colonies on the coast of Catalonia and
Valencia, and several independent nations of the
interior, seeing no other way to avoid submitting to
Carthage, called upon the Romans for help. Rome
sent commissioners to Carthage in the year B.C.
227, who obtained a promise that the Carthaginians
would not push their conquests beyond the Ebro, and
that they would not disturb the Saguntines and other
Greek colonies. But, in spite of this agreement,
Saguntum was besieged eight years later, by a Carthaginian
army under Hannibal. The siege and
destruction of this city caused the second Punic war,
lasting from B.C. 218 to 201, during which Carthage
lost her last foot–hold in Spain.

“But the Romans did not obtain quiet possession of
the country their great enemy had lost. Nearly all the
territory had to be won again from the natives; and in
some parts of the peninsula the contest was doubtful
for years. As if this were not enough, many of the
battles of the civil wars, during the decline of the Roman
republic, were fought on the soil of Spain, which,
for two centuries after the fall of Saguntum, hardly
knew the blessing of peace for a single year. To say
nothing of lesser celebrities, we find the names of Hasdrubal,
Hanno, Mago, and Hannibal, among the Carthaginians;
of Viriathus, the Lusitanian; and, of the
Romans, the Scipios, Sertorius, Metellus, Pompey the
Great, and Julius Cæsar,—in the military annals of
Spain during this period.

“Shortly after the Roman republic became an empire,
under Augustus,—B.C. 30 to A.D. 14,—war
was suspended throughout the Roman empire; and the
Spaniards enjoyed a large share of tranquillity from
that time till the barbarians poured across the Pyrenees,
at the beginning of the fifth century. As a province of
the empire, Spain held a high rank. The stupendous
Bridge of Alcantara, the well–preserved Theatre of
Murviedro, and the celebrated Aqueducts of Segovia
and Tarragona, still attest the magnificence of that
period. Nor was the peninsula wanting in illustrious
men during these times. The most learned and practical
writer on agriculture among the ancients,—Columella,—the
poets Martial and Lucan, the philosopher
Seneca, the historian Florus, the geographer Pomponius
Mela, and the rhetorician Quintilian, were
Spaniards. Three of the Roman emperors—Trajan,
one of the greatest princes that ever swayed a sceptre;
Hadrian, the enlightened protector of arts and literature;
and Marcus Aurelius, whose name was long held
in grateful remembrance by his subjects—were also
natives of the Spanish peninsula.

“After the death of Constantine, A.D. 337, the
prosperity of Spain began to decline. The taxes
became heavier, and were increased till they were more
than the people could bear. In a short time towns
were deserted, fields ran to waste, and fruit–trees were
uprooted, so as to reduce the value of property in order
to avoid taxation. At the close of the century nothing
was to be seen but desolation, poverty, and misery.
But there was still a lower deep: the barbarians crossed
the Pyrenees, and the country was turned into a desert.

“The great irruption of the northern nations into the
Roman empire began in 375. A century later, the
western empire fell. The most important division of
the barbarians, who occupy so large a place in the history
of the fourth and fifth centuries, were the Germans.
The Vandals and Suevi, two of the nations that entered
Spain in 409, were Germans. It is not certain that the
third nation coming to Spain, the Alani, were of the
same race. The ravages of these barbarians were terrible.
Towns were burned, the country laid waste, and
the inhabitants were massacred without distinction of
age or sex. Famine and pestilence made fearful havoc,
and the wild beasts left their hiding–places to make
war on the wretched people. Even the corpses were
devoured by the starving population.

“At length the conquerors themselves saw that converting
a land in which they intended to live into a
desert was not the wisest policy. They divided by lot,
among themselves, those parts of the peninsula which
they occupied. The southern part fell to the Vandals,
whence it received the name of Vandalicia, which has
easily become Andalusia. Lusitania, which was very
nearly the modern Portugal, went to the Alani; and the
Suevi had the north–western part of the peninsula,
which is now Galicia. The Romans still held the rest
of the country.

“But this division was soon destroyed by the Visigoths,
or West Goths, another Germanic tribe. All
these Germans were only a little less savage than our
North American Indians. They neglected agriculture,
and no man tilled the same field more than one year.
War was really their only occupation. One of them
boasted to Julius Cæsar that his soldiers had been fourteen
years without entering a house; another declared
that the only country he knew as his home was the territory
occupied by his troops; and we are told by Tacitus
that war was the only work they liked.

“The Visigoths, under their King Alaric, had ravaged
Greece and Italy, and had taken Rome, before
they established themselves in Southern Gaul, in 411.
They commenced the conquest of Spain almost immediately
after the foundation of their new kingdom; but
they were the nominal rather than the real masters of
the kingdom for more than half a century.

“Euric (466 to 484) was the founder of the Gothic
kingdom of Spain; and Amalaric (522 to 531) was the
first sovereign to hold his court in the country. Before
long, Spain became the most flourishing of the governments
established by the Germans on the ruins of the
western empire. The conquerors, as they were the few
while the civilized Roman inhabitants were the many,
adopted the manners, the religion, the laws, and the
language, of the subject people. They mingled a little
Gothic with the Latin; and from this mixture arose, in
the course of time, the noble and beautiful Castilian, or
Spanish language.

“By degrees the Visigoths became less warlike, and
finally ceased to be a nation of soldiers. Their kings
were elective, and seem to have possessed more power
than those of other German tribes. Still they were
controlled to a great extent by the clergy. The councils
of Toledo figured largely in the history of that
period; and in these the bishops were a power. ‘Let
no one in his pride seize upon the throne,’ says one
of the Visigothic laws; ‘let no pretender excite civil
war among the people; let no one conspire the death
of the prince. But, when the king is dead in peace,
let the principal men of the whole kingdom, together
with the bishops—who have received power to bind
and to loose, and whose blessing and unction confirm
princes in their authority—appoint his successor
by common consent, and with the approval of God.’
But the kings were not always allowed to die in peace.
From Euric to Roderick, the greater number of them
were assassinated or deposed. Roderick, the last of the
Gothic kings of Spain, drove his predecessor from the
throne. The relations of the dethroned monarch invited
the Arabs, or Moors, of Africa to their aid; and
the famous battle fought on the plains of the modern
_Xeres de la Frontera_, near Cadiz, a battle that lasted
three days, put an end to the life of Roderick, and to
the Gothic kingdom of Spain, in the year 711.

“In the days of the patriarch Jacob, the people of
Arabia were far enough advanced in civilization to
maintain an active overland trade with Egypt. The
Midianite merchantmen to whom Joseph was sold for
twenty pieces of silver—about a dozen dollars—were
from Arabia. Yet, for more than two thousand years
from that time, the Arabs continued to be so divided
into hostile clans, that they were almost unknown to
history. The religion of Mohammed first united them;
and the history of the Arabs really begins with the
Hegira, or flight of the Prophet from Mecca, in the
year 622. For ten years Mohammed had proclaimed
his new creed in Mecca; his followers had been few,
and had suffered incessant persecution; and now he
was promised, by men from Medina, that, if he would
flee to their city, his faith should be adopted and maintained.
He made his escape from Mecca, though not
without great risk, and reached Medina in safety,
accompanied by a single friend. In Mecca he had
preached patience and resignation under the wrongs
inflicted by man. At Medina, where he had followers,
his doctrine was, that one drop of blood shed in the
cause of God—meaning the new faith, of course—was
to be of more avail in working out the salvation of
his hearers than two months of fasting and prayer. At
first he made war on the caravan trade of his native
city; and Mecca sent out an army to meet him.
Mohammed had but three hundred and twenty–four
men, while the Meccans were a thousand. But the
prophet assured his followers that three thousand angels
were fighting on his side; and with these unseen allies
he utterly routed his enemy. After this first victory,
conquest followed conquest in rapid succession. In
less than a century from the Hegira, Arabia was but a
small province of the empire which had been founded
by Mohammed’s successors; an empire that extended
from India to the Atlantic, and included Syria, Phœnicia,
Mesopotamia, Persia, Bactriana, Egypt, Libya,
Numidia, Spain, and many important islands of the
Mediterranean.

“After King Roderick’s defeat and death at Xeres,
the Moors almost immediately took possession of the
whole country, except Biscaya, Navarre, a part of Aragon,
and the mountains of the Asturias. Here a few
resolute Goths made a stand, under Pelayo, and established
a kingdom; a stronghold which enabled the
Christians step by step to recover their lost territory,
till after eight centuries the last foot of Spanish soil
was retaken from the Moslems.

“During a part of the Moors’ dominion in Spain the
country was very prosperous. For more than forty
years after the conquest, however, it was ruled by viceroys
dependent upon the caliphs who reigned in Damascus.
This was a time of discord and civil war; and,
towards the close of this period, many a city and village
was laid in ruins never again to rise.

“The eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries were the
most prosperous in the history of Mohammedan Spain;
and the last was its golden age. The Moors, though
warlike, were also industrious, and agriculture flourished
during this period as it has never flourished since.
Roads and bridges were built, and canals for fertilizing
the land were made in all parts of the country. Learning
was encouraged by the kings of Cordova; and, at
the end of the eleventh century, Moorish Spain could
boast of seventy large libraries; while her poets, historians,
philosophers, and mathematicians were second
to none of that age. Cordova, the capital, was equal to
many cities like the Cordova of to–day. At one time
there were in that city six hundred mosques, and nearly
four thousand chapels, or mosques of smaller dimensions;
four hundred and thirty minarets, or towers
from which the people were called to prayers, such as
you saw in Constantinople; nine hundred baths; more
than eighty thousand shops; sixty thousand palaces
and mansions; and two hundred and thirteen thousand
common dwelling–houses. The city extended eight
leagues along the Guadalquiver. If these statistics
are correct, the city must have contained not less than
a million inhabitants. We can form some idea of its
splendors when we are told that a palace built near the
city, by Abderrahman III., had its roof supported by
more than four thousand pillars of variegated marble;
that the floors and walls were of the same costly material;
that the chief apartments were adorned with
exquisite fountains and baths; and that the whole was
surrounded by most magnificent grounds.

“In 1031 the kingdom, or caliphate, of Cordova
came to an end; and several petty kingdoms took its
place. But all of them soon became dependent upon
the Moorish monarch of Northern Africa. The Christian
kings of Spain were prompt in taking advantage
of this division among the infidels, as the Moors were
called; and the power of the Moslems began to decline.
The Christians gained rapidly on the Moors; and in
1238, when the kingdom of Granada was founded, the
Moors held only a part of Southern Spain. Granada
was the last realm of the Moors in Spain; and its population
was largely composed of the Moslems who fled
there from the kingdoms which had been overthrown
by the victorious arms of the Christian monarchs.

The little kingdom of Granada, though it had an
area of only nine thousand square miles, contained
thirty–two large cities and ninety–seven smaller ones,
and a population of three million souls. The city of
Granada had seventy thousand houses. This kingdom
held out against the Christians till the beginning of the
year 1492. This was the year in which America was
discovered; and Columbus followed Ferdinand and
Isabella, in their campaign against the Moors, to this
city.

“With the fall of Granada, came the close of the
Moorish rule in the peninsula. A few years later many
of the Moors were expelled from the country. In
many parts of Spain the traveller still sees numerous
traces of their dominion. He finds these traces in the
Oriental style of the older buildings; in the _alcazars_,
or palaces, they built; in the mosques now converted
into Christian churches; and in the canals which still
fertilize the soil from which the Moslems were driven
more than three centuries ago.

“The old Gothic monarchy founded by Pelayo survived
in the kingdom of the Asturias. As the Christians
began to recover their lost territory from the
Moors, these conquests, instead of being joined to the
Asturian kingdom, were erected into independent
states; but, by the middle of the fifteenth century, the
number of them had been reduced to five,—Navarre,
Aragon, Castile, Granada, and Portugal. We shall say
something of Portugal at another time, for it has a
history of its own. In 1479 Ferdinand of Aragon and
Isabella of Castile united these two monarchies into
one. The kingdom of the Asturias had been merged
into that of Leon, which was united to Castile in 1067.
Granada was added in 1492, and Navarre twenty years
later.

“At the death of Ferdinand in 1516, Charles I.
became king of Spain. He was the son of ‘Crazy
Jane,’ daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella. He was
elected emperor of Germany three years after his
accession to the throne, as Charles V. His reign and
that of his son and successor covered the most splendid
period in the history of modern Spain, ending with the
death of Philip in 1588. Their dominions were the
most extensive among the monarchs of Europe; their
armies were the best of that age; and their treasuries
were supplied by the exhaustless mines of the new
world which Columbus had given to Spain. But, after
the death of Philip II., the monarchy rapidly declined;
so rapidly indeed that a century later, when Charles II.
died, in 1700, it was without money, without credit, and
without troops.

“I must again call your attention to the magnificent
works of our own Prescott. I hope you will all read
them, for I have not time to mention a score of topics
which are treated in these volumes, such as the Inquisition,
the Spanish Rule in Naples, the Conquest of
Granada, the Great Captain, the Cardinal Ximines,
and the Spanish Rule in the Netherlands. I commend
to you also the works of Motley and Washington Irving;
of the latter, especially ‘The Life of Columbus,’ ‘The
Alhambra,’ and ‘The Conquest of Granada.’”

“Charles II., as he had no children, and there was no
heir to the throne, signed an instrument, before his
death, declaring Philip, Duke of Anjou, grandson of
the grand monarch Louis XIV., his successor. This
king was Philip V., the first of the Spanish branch of
the Bourbon family, to which Isabella II., the late
queen of Spain, belonged. England, Holland, and
Germany objected to this arrangement, because it
placed both France and Spain under the rule of the
same family; and for twelve years resisted the claim of
Philip to the throne. This was ‘the war of the Spanish
succession,’ in which Prince Eugene and the Duke of
Marlborough won several great victories. But Philip
retained the throne, though he lost the Spanish possessions
in Italy and the Netherlands, and was obliged to
cede Gibraltar and Minorca to England. Under Philip
V. and his successors, the prosperity of Spain revived;
and the kingdom flourished till the French Revolution.

“Philip was followed by his son Ferdinand VI. in
1748; but he was mentally unfit to take an active part
in the government, and was succeeded by his stepbrother
Charles III. in 1759. He was a wise prince,
and greatly promoted the prosperity of his country.
Charles IV., who came to the throne in 1788, began his
reign by following the wise policy of his father; but he
soon placed himself under the influence of Godoy, his
prime minister, who led him into several fruitless wars
and expensive alliances, which reduced the country to
a miserable condition. In 1808 an insurrection compelled
him to abdicate in favor of his son, who ascended
the throne as Ferdinand VII. A few days later the
ex–king wrote a letter to Napoleon, declaring that he
had abdicated under compulsion; and he revoked the
act. Napoleon offered to arbitrate between the father
and son, and he met them at Bayonne for this purpose.
He induced both of them to resign their claims to
the throne, and then made his brother Joseph king of
Spain. The new king started for his dominion; but
the Spaniards were not satisfied with this little arrangement,
and insurrections broke out all over the country.
England decided to take a hand in the game, made
peace with Spain, acknowledged Ferdinand VII. as
king of Spain, and formed an alliance with the government.
Thus began the peninsular war, in which the
Duke of Wellington prepared the way for the destruction
of Napoleon’s power. As you travel, you will visit
the battle–fields of this great conflict, and your guide–book
will contain full accounts of the struggle in various
places.

“In 1812, while Ferdinand was a prisoner in France,
and the war was still raging, the _Cortes_, driven from
Madrid to Seville, and then to Cadiz, drew up a written
constitution, the first of the kind known in the peninsula.
The regency acting for the absent monarch,
recognized by England and Russia, took an oath to
support it. In 1814 Ferdinand was released, and
came back to Spain. He declared the constitution
null and void, and the _Cortes_ that adopted it illegal.
He ruled the nation in an arbitrary manner, and even
attempted to restore the inquisition, which had been
abolished, and to annul the reforms which had been for
years in progress. But in 1820 the patience of the
people was exhausted, and a revolution was undertaken.
The king was deserted by his troops; and the royal
palace was surrounded by a multitude of the people,
who demanded his acceptance of the constitution of
1812. The humbled monarch appeared at a balcony,
holding a copy of the instrument in his hand, as an
indication that he was ready to accept it, and take the
oath to support it. In a few months the _Cortes_ met; and
the king formally swore to obey the constitution, and
accept the new order of things. But this did not suit
France, Austria, Russia, and Prussia: they had no
stomach for liberal constitutions; and these powers
sent a French army into Spain, which soon overpowered
the resistance offered; and Ferdinand was again in condition
to rule as absolutely as ever. It was during this
period that the Spanish–American colonies, which had
begun to revolt in 1808, secured their independence.

“Even those who favored the king’s views were not
wholly satisfied with the king, and believed he was not
energetic enough for the situation. Many of the people
wished to dethrone Ferdinand, and elevate his
brother Carlos, or Charles, to his place. Several insurrections
broke out, but they were failures. Of
course this state of things did not create the best of
feeling between Ferdinand and Carlos. The Bourbon
family were governed by the Salic law, which excludes
females from the throne. In 1830, the year in which
Isabella the late queen, who was the daughter of Ferdinand
VII., was born, Maria Christina induced her
husband, the king, to abolish the Salic law. Two years
later, when the king was very sick, the Church party
compelled him to revoke the act; but he got better;
and, as the _Cortes_ had sanctioned the annulling of the
Salic law, he destroyed the documents which had been
extorted from him on his sick–bed. His queen had
been made regent during his illness. When Ferdinand
died, his daughter was proclaimed queen, in accordance
with the programme, as Isabella II. Don Carlos had
protested against his exclusion from the throne, and
now he took up arms to enforce his right. In the
Basque provinces he was proclaimed king, as Charles
V. His arms were successful at first; but, though the
war lasted seven years, it was a failure in the end.

“While the Carlist war was still raging, in 1836, a
revolution in favor of a constitution broke out; and
the next year that of 1812, with important amendments,
was adopted by the _Cortes_, and ratified by the
queen regent, for Isabella was a child of only six
years. In 1841, Maria Christina having resigned, Espartero
was appointed regent, by the _Cortes_, for the
rest of the queen’s minority. He was a progressive
man, and his administration very largely promoted
the prosperity of the country. The government had
abolished convents, and confiscated the revenues of
the Church; and this awakened the hostility of the
clergy, who, for a time, prevented the sale of the property
thus acquired. This question finally produced a
rupture between Espartero and the clergy, resulting in
a general insurrection. The regent fled to England,
and the _Cortes_ declared the queen to be of age when
she was only thirteen years old. Espartero was recalled
a few years later, and has since held many high offices.
The pope eventually permitted the Church property to
be sold; but the contest between the progressive and
the conservative parties was continued for a long period.
Narvaez, Serrano, General Prim, Castelar, and Espartero
are the most prominent statesmen; and doubtless
the last–named is the most able.

“The frequent insurrections gave the government
some excuse for ruling with little regard to the fundamental
law of the land; and this led to another revolution
in 1854, in favor of a little more constitution.
The evil was corrected for the time; and the instrument
adopted, or rather restored, is sometimes called the
constitution of 1854. But the queen was a Bourbon,
and seemed to be always in favor of tyrannical measures
and of the party that advocated them; and the country
has continued to be in a disorganized state largely on
this account. She has been noted for the frequent
changes of her ministers. A few years ago General
Prim raised the standard of revolt; but the time for
a change had not yet come, and the general was glad
to escape into Portugal.

“The revolution of 1868 commenced with the fleet
off Cadiz; but, the cry, ‘Down with the Bourbons!’
soon reached the army and the people, and the revolution
was accomplished almost without opposition. The
queen fled to France. A provisional government was
organized, and an election of members of the _Cortes_
was ordered to decide on the form of the new government.
The _Cortes_ met, and in May, 1869, decreed that
the new government should be a monarchy. About the
same time the crown was offered to King Louis of
Portugal, who, however, declined it. Last June, Queen
Isabella abdicated in favor of her son Alfonso, prince
of the Asturias, who will be Alfonso XII. if he ever
becomes king of Spain. Later in the year Prince
Leopold, of Hohenzollern Sigmaringen, was invited to
the throne. He was a relative of the king of Prussia;
and, when he accepted the crown, it was a real grievance
to France. Leopold was withdrawn from the candidacy;
but this matter was made the pretext for the
Franco–Prussian war now raging on the soil of France.

“But we read history in the newspapers for the
latest details; and only last month the _Cortes_ elected
Amedeo, second son of the king of Italy, king of Spain.
He has accepted the crown, and departed for his kingdom.
We can wish him a prosperous reign; but in
a country like Spain he will find that a crown is not a
wreath of roses. I will not detain you longer, young
gentlemen.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The professor bowed, and descended from his rostrum.
Most of the students had given good attention to his
discourse; for they desired to understand the history
of the country they were about to visit.

Since Professor Mapps finished his lecture in the port
of Barcelona, King Amedeo, after two long years of fruitless
struggling with the enemies of Spain’s peace and
prosperity, renounced the crown for himself, his children,
and successors. Nearly a year later Alfonso XII.
was proclaimed king of Spain, and now occupies the
throne. While the country was looking for a king, the
third Carlist war was begun,—the last two led by
the son of the original Don Carlos,—but it was a
failure.



CHAPTER V.

A SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCE.


While Professor Mapps was giving his lecture,
or his “talk” as he preferred to call it, in the
grand saloon of the steamer, quite a number of boats
were pulling around the steamer, and the other vessels
of the squadron, some of them containing boatmen
looking for a job, and others, people who were curious
to see the ship and her consorts. The several craft
were not men–of–war or merchantmen; and they
seemed to excite a great deal of curiosity. Not a few
of the boats came up to the gangway, their occupants
asking permission to go on board; but they were
politely refused by the officers in charge.

Some of the boats carried lateen, or leg–of–mutton
sails, which are used more than any other on the
Mediterranean. A long yard, or spar, is slung at an
angle of forty–five degrees, on a short mast, so that
one–fourth of the spar is below and the rest above the
mast. The sail is triangular, except that the part
nearest to the tack is squared off. It is attached to the
long yard on the hypothenuse side. On the larger
craft, the sail is hauled out on the long spar, sliding on
hanks, or rings. It is a picturesque rig; and some of
the students who had a taste for boating were anxious
to try their skill in handling a sail of this kind.

One of these feluccas, with two gentlemen in the
stern, seemed to be more persistent than the others
to obtain admission for its occupants on board of the
Prince. Her huge sail was brailed up, and she had
taken a berth at the gangway of the steamer. Peaks,
the adult boatswain of the ship, obeyed his orders to
the letter, and would not permit any one to put foot
on the deck. One of the gentlemen who came off
in her had ascended the accommodation steps, and
insisted upon holding a parley with Peaks; but as the
old salt understood only a few words of Spanish, and
the stranger did not speak English, they did not get
ahead very well. The boatswain resolutely but good–naturedly
refused to let the visitor pass him, or to disturb
the lecture by sending to the saloon for some one
to act as interpreter. The gentleman obstinately
declined to give up his point, whatever it was, and
remained at the gangway till the students were dismissed
from the exercise.

When the lecture was finished, Mr. Lowington came
out of the saloon; and, as he passed the gangway,
Peaks touched his cap, and informed him that a Spaniard
on the steps insisted upon coming on board.

“I don’t understand his lingo, and can’t tell what he
is driving at,” added Peaks.

“Somebody that wishes to visit the ship, probably,”
replied the principal.

“I have turned back more than fifty, but this one
won’t be turned back,” continued Peaks, as Mr. Lowington
stepped up to the gangway.

As soon as the Spanish gentleman saw him, he raised
his hat, and addressed him in the politest terms, begging
pardon for the intrusion. The principal invited
him to come on board, and then immediately directed
the people of the Josephine and Tritonia to return to
their vessels. While the Tritonias were piping over the
side, Mr. Lowington gave his attention to the visitor.

“Have you a student in your ship by the name of
Enrique Raimundo?” asked the Spanish gentleman,
after he had properly introduced the subject of his
visit.

Mr. Lowington spoke Spanish, having learned it
when he was on duty as a naval officer in the Mediterranean;
but, as he had been out of practice for many
years, he was not as fluent in the language as formerly.
But he understood the question, and so did Raimundo,
who happened to pass behind the principal, in company
with Scott, at this interesting moment. Possibly his
heart rose to his throat, as he heard his name mentioned;
at any rate, after the history he had narrated
to Scott, he could not help being greatly disturbed by
the inquiry of the stranger. But he had the presence
of mind to refrain from any demonstration, and went
over the side into the cutter with his companions. If
his handsome olive face was paler than usual, no one
noticed the fact.

Mr. Lowington was a prudent man in the management
of the affairs of the students under his care.
When he heard the inquiry for the second master of
the Tritonia, whom he knew to be a Spaniard, he at
once concluded that the visitor was a friend or a relative
of the young man. But it was no part of his policy
to deliver over his pupils to their friends and relatives
without fully understanding what he was doing. Persons
claiming such relations might lead the students
astray. They might be the agents of some of his
rogues on board, who had resorted to this expedient to
obtain a vacation on shore.

“Are you a relative of Raimundo?” was the first
question the principal proposed to the stranger.

“No, I am not; but”—

Mr. Lowington failed to understand the rest of the
reply made by the gentleman, for here his Spanish was
at fault. The visitor was not a relative of Raimundo.
If he had answered in the affirmative, the principal
would have directed the Tritonia’s boats to remain, so
that the visitor could see the young man, if upon further
explanation it was proper for him to do so. If the
gentleman was not a relative, it was not advisable to
disturb the routine of the squadron to oblige him. He
could see Raimundo the next day, when he went on
shore. The boats of the Josephine and the Tritonia
were therefore permitted to return without any delay.

“_No hablo mucho Español_” (I do not speak much
Spanish), said Mr. Lowington, laughing; “_y no comprendo_”
(and I do not understand).

He then with the utmost politeness, as required in all
intercourse with Spanish gentlemen, invited the visitor
into the grand saloon, and sent for Professor Badois,
the instructor in modern languages, to assist at the
interview. The gentleman proved to be Don Francisco
Castro, an _abogado_, or lawyer, who represented Don
Alejandro, the lawful guardian of Enrique Raimundo.
He claimed the body of his client’s ward, the second
master of the Tritonia. Even Professor Badois had
some difficulty in comprehending the legal terms used
by the _abogado_; but so much was made clear to the
principal.

“I don’t understand this business,” said he. “I
received the young man from Manuel Raimundo, his
uncle in New York, who has always paid his tuition
fees; and I hold myself responsible to him for the
safe keeping of my pupil.”

“Ah, but you are in Spain, and the young man is a
Spaniard, subject to Spanish law,” added Don Francisco,
with a bland smile. “All the evidence will be
presented to you, and you will be fully justified in giving
up the young man.”

Mr. Lowington was very much disturbed. He knew
nothing of the circumstances of the case beyond what
the lawyer told him; and he was very much perplexed
by the situation. He called Dr. Winstock, who spoke
Spanish even more fluently than Professor Badois, and
asked his advice.

“If Don Alejandro is the lawful guardian of Raimundo,
how happens the young man to be a resident of
New York?” asked the surgeon, after the case had
been fully explained to him.

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, but smiled as
blandly as ever.

“Don Manuel, the uncle of the boy, stole him from
his guardian when he left his native land,” said Don
Francisco. “You see, the young man has a fortune of
five million _reales_; and no doubt Don Manuel wants to
get this money or a part of it.”

“But Manuel Raimundo is one of the richest wine–merchants
of New York,” protested the principal.

The subject was discussed for half an hour longer.
Don Francisco said he had sent agents to New York to
obtain possession of the boy, and had kept the run of
the squadron from the day the ward of his client had
entered as a student. He had taken no action before,
because he had been assured that the vessels would
visit Spain, where there would be no legal difficulties in
the way of securing his client’s ward. The lawyer
made a very plain case of it, and was entirely fair in
every thing he proposed. He would not take Raimundo
out of the vessel by force unless compelled to
do so. The whole matter would be settled in the
proper court, and the young man should have the best
counsel in Spain.

“Very well, Don Francisco. I am much obliged to
you for the courtesy with which you have managed your
case so far,” said Mr. Lowington. “I will employ
counsel to–morrow to look up the matter in the interest
of my pupil.”

“But the young man,—what is to be done with him
in the mean time?” asked the lawyer.

“He will be safe on board of the Tritonia.”

“Pardon me, sir; but I have been looking for the
boy too many years to let him slip through my fingers
now,” interposed Don Francisco earnestly, but with
his constant smile. “If he hears that I am looking
for him, he will keep out of my way, as he has done for
several years.”

“Do you wish to make a prisoner of him?” inquired
the principal.

“No, no! By no means,—no prison! He shall
have the best room in my house; but I must not lose
sight of him.”

“That would be taking possession of the young man
without regard to any thing I may wish to do for him.
I do not like that arrangement,” added Mr. Lowington.

The courteous _abogado_ seemed to be troubled. He
did not wish to do any thing that would not be satisfactory
to the “distinguished officer” before him; but,
after considerable friendly argument, he proposed a
plan which was accepted by the principal. The person
who had come off in the boat with him was an _alguacil_,
or constable, who had been empowered to arrest Don
Alejandro’s ward. Would the principal allow this
official to remain on board of the vessel with Raimundo,
and keep an eye on him all the time? Mr. Lowington
did not object to this arrangement. He
would go with Don Francisco to the Tritonia, where
the situation could be explained to Raimundo, and the
_alguacil_ should occupy a state–room with his charge, if
he desired. The principal treated his guest with distinguished
consideration; and the first cutter was lowered
to convey him to the Tritonia. Dr. Winstock
accompanied the party; the twelve oars of the first
cutter dropped into the water with mechanical precision,
to the great admiration of the Spanish gentlemen;
and the boat darted off from the ship’s side.

In a moment the cutter was alongside the Tritonia,
and the party went on board of her. Most of the
officers were on the quarter–deck, and Mr. Lowington
looked among them for the second master. All hands
raised their caps to the principal as soon as he appeared
on the deck.

“Captain Wainwright, I wish to see Mr. Raimundo,”
said he to the young commander. “Send for him, if
you please.”

“Mr. Raimundo,” repeated the captain, touching his
cap. “Mr. Richards, pass the word for Mr. Raimundo.”

The first master, who had been designated, went to
look for the young Spaniard. His name was repeated
all over the deck, and through the cabin and steerage;
but Raimundo did not respond to the call. A vigorous
search was made in every part of the vessel; yet the
second master was still missing. Don Francisco’s
constant courtesy seemed to be somewhat shaken.
Inquiries were made of all the other officers in regard
to the second master. They had seen him on the deck
after the return of the boats from the Prince. Scott
had left him in the cabin, half an hour before; but he
had not the least idea what had become of him. Don
Francisco spoke French and Italian; and he examined
O’Hara in the latter, and several other officers in the
former language.

Mr. Lowington explained that he had sent no one
to the Tritonia to inform Raimundo that he was wanted;
and the _alguacil_, who had remained in the felucca all
the time till he took his place in the first cutter, assured
the lawyer that no one had gone from the steamer to
the schooner after all the boats left.

The principal and the vice–principal were as much
perplexed as the lawyer. None of them could alter
the fact that Raimundo was missing; and they were
utterly unable to account for his mysterious disappearance.
All of them were confident that the absentee
would soon be found; and the _abogado_ returned to the
shore, leaving the _alguacil_ in the Tritonia to continue
the search.



CHAPTER VI.

A LOOK AT BARCELONA.


The sudden disappearance of Raimundo produced
the greatest astonishment on board of the Tritonia,
and not less among those who knew him best in the
other vessels of the squadron. His character had been
excellent since he first joined the academy squadron.
No one believed he had run away for the mere sake of
escaping the study and discipline of his vessel, or for
the sake of “a time” on shore. The _abogado’s_ business
was explained to Mr. Pelham on board of the
Tritonia, but to no others. Raimundo was gone without
a doubt; but when, where, or how he had disappeared,
was a profound mystery.

The excellent character of Raimundo, and the fact
that he was a universal favorite, were strongly in his
favor; and no one was disposed to render a harsh
judgment in regard to his singular conduct. The officers
talked it over in the cabin, the seamen talked it
over in the steerage. The students could make nothing
of the matter; and it looked to them very much like
the usual cases of running away, strange as it seemed
to them that a fellow like Raimundo, who had been a
model of good conduct on board, should take such a
step.

Of course Scott was an exception to the general rule.
Though he knew not where his friend had gone, he
understood why he had disappeared; for Raimundo had
told him what he had heard on board of the American
Prince, and he was fully satisfied that the stranger had
come for him.

“I think the matter is fully explained,” said Professor
Crumples, in the state–room. “A demand has been
made on the principal for Raimundo; and straightway
Raimundo disappears. It is plain enough to me that
the young man knew the lawyer was after him.”

“But how could he know it?” demanded Professor
Primback.

“That I cannot explain; but I am satisfied that a
student like Raimundo would not run away. He has
not gone for a frolic, or to escape his duty: he is not
one of that sort,” persisted Professor Crumples.

“I think you are right, Mr. Crumples,” added the
vice–principal. “Raimundo was a bad boy, or at least
full of mischief and given to a lark, before he joined
the institution; but for more than a year his deportment
has been perfectly exemplary. He has been a
model since I have had charge of this vessel. I have
found that those who have really reformed are often
stiffer and more determined in their zeal to do right
than many who have never left the straight path of
duty. I may say that I know this fact from experience.
I am satisfied that Raimundo had some very strong
motive for the step he has taken. But what you say,
Mr. Crumples, suggests a little further inquiry into the
matter.”

The vice–principal spoke Spanish, and he immediately
sent for the _alguacil_ to join the trio in the state–room.

“Had the boats belonging to this vessel left the
steamer when Don Francisco went on board of her?”
asked Mr. Pelham as the Spanish officer entered the
room.

“No, sir: not a boat had left the steamer when Don
Francisco was permitted to go on the deck of the
steamer,” replied the _alguacil_ promptly. “He waited
on the steps, at the head of which the big officer stood,
for more than an hour; and I was in the boat at the
foot of the steps all the time. I counted eight boats
made fast to the boom; and I am sure that no one left
the steamer till after Don Francisco had been admitted
on board. I saw all the boys get into these boats, and
pull away to this vessel and the other.”

“Then Don Francisco was on the deck of the
steamer at the same time that our ship’s company
were there,” added Mr. Pelham.

“No doubt of that,” replied the _alguacil_, who appeared
to desire that no suspicion of foul play on the
part of the officers or the principal should be encouraged.

“Now, if I could find any one who noticed the conduct
of Raimundo on board of the steamer, we might
get at something,” continued the vice–principal.

“I think you can easily find such a one,” suggested
Professor Crumples. “Lieutenant Scott and Raimundo
are fast friends; they are in the same quarter–watch,
and appear to be great cronies.”

“I was thinking of him when you spoke.—Mr.
Scott,” called the vice–principal, when he had opened
the door of the state–room.

Scott was in the cabin, and presented himself at the
door. He was requested to come in, and the door was
closed behind him.

“Were you with Raimundo on board of the steamer?”
asked Mr. Pelham.

Scott was fully determined not to do or say any thing
that would injure his friend, even if he were sent to the
brig for his fidelity to the absent shipmate; and he
hesitated long enough to consider the effect of any thing
he might say.

“We are all friends of Raimundo, and do not wish
to harm him,” added the vice–principal. “You have
already said you did not know where Raimundo was.”

“I do not.”

“Do you object to answering the question I asked?”

“I do not,” replied Scott, who had by this time made
up his mind that the truth could not harm his friend.
“I was with Raimundo all the time he was on board of
the steamer. We went in the same boat, and returned
together.”

“Did you notice the gentleman that came on board
of the Tritonia with Mr. Lowington?”

“I did. He was on deck here half an hour, or
more.”

“Did you see him on board of the American
Prince?”

“I did. He spoke to the principal just as Raimundo
and I passed behind him.”

“Behind whom?”

“Behind the principal. I looked the gentleman in
the face while he was speaking to Mr. Lowington.”

“Do you know what he said?”

“I can walk Spanish, but I can’t talk Spanish; and
so I couldn’t understand him.”

“You don’t know what he said, then?”

Scott hesitated again.

“I don’t say that.”

“But you intimated that you did not understand
Spanish.”

“I do know what the gentleman said as I passed
him,” replied Scott.

“How could you know, without understanding the
language he spoke?”

“Raimundo told me what he said; and he could
understand Spanish if I could not.”

“Ah, indeed! Raimundo told you! Well, what did
he tell you the gentleman said?” asked the vice–principal
earnestly.

“He told me he heard the gentleman ask the principal
if he had a student under his care by the name of
Enrique Raimundo: that’s all he heard, and that’s all
he told me about the gentleman,” replied Scott, who
had said so much because he believed that this information
would do his absent shipmate more good than
harm.

“That explains it all,” added Mr. Pelham; and he
informed the _alguacil_ what Scott had said.

This was all the vice–principal had expected to show
by Scott; and he was entirely satisfied with the information
he had obtained, not suspecting that the third
lieutenant knew any thing more about the matter. Mr. Pelham
and the rest of the party asked Scott some
more questions in regard to the conduct of the absentee
after he came on board of the Tritonia; but
Raimundo had taken care that his friend should know
nothing at all about his intended movements, and the
lieutenant was as ignorant of them as any other person
on board. To his intense relief he was dismissed without
having betrayed the confidence of his friend in the
slightest degree.

Scott knew the whole story of the young Spaniard;
and he was confident that the principal and the vice–principal,
if not the professors, had learned at least
Don Alejandro’s side of it from the stranger; and he
felt that he was relieving his friend from the charge of
being a runaway, in the ordinary acceptation of the
term, by showing that Raimundo knew that some one
was after him.

The exciting topic was discussed by all hands till the
anchor–watch was set, and the rest of the ship’s company
had turned in. Even Bill Stout and Bark Lingall
in the brig had heard the news, for Ben Pardee had
contrived to communicate it to them on the sly; and
they discussed it in whispers, as well as another more
exciting question to them, after all hands below were
asleep. Bill was fully determined to repeat the wicked
experiment which had so providentially failed that day.

“Bark is willin’,” added that worthy, when the plan
had been fully considered.

The _alguacil_ visited every part of the vessel, attended
by the vice–principal, before he retired for the
night. The next morning, all hands were mustered on
deck, and the search was repeated. This time the hold
was visited; but no sign of the fugitive could be found.
The _alguacil_ protested that he was sure no attempt
had been made by any person on board to conceal the
absentee; for every facility had been afforded him to
see for himself.

Breakfast had been ordered at an early hour; for it
was understood that all hands were to go on shore, and
see what little there was to be seen in Barcelona.
Before the meal was finished, the principal came on
board with Don Francisco. The _alguacil_ reported to
his employer what he had done, and described the
thorough search which had been made for the missing
ward. The principal offered to do any thing the
lawyer would suggest in order to find Raimundo. No
one could imagine how he had left the vessel, though it
seemed to be a settled conviction with all that he had
left. Don Francisco could suggest nothing; but he
insisted that the _alguacil_ should remain on the vessel,
to which the principal gladly assented.

Don Francisco was sent on shore in good style in the
first cutter of the Prince; and, as soon as breakfast was
over in the Tritonia, the principal directed that all
hands should be mustered in the waist.

“Young gentlemen,” said Mr. Lowington, as soon as
the students had assembled, “I spent last evening, and
the greater part of last night, in devising a plan by
which all hands in the fleet may see the most interesting
portions of Spain and Portugal.”

This announcement was received with a demonstration
of applause, which was permitted and even enjoyed
by the faculty; for it had long before been proved
that the boys were honest and sincere in their expressions
of approbation, and that they withheld their
tribute when they were not satisfied with the announcement,
or the programme, whatever it was. The principal
bowed in acknowledgment of the applause.

“I am well aware that some of the interior towns of
Spain possess more interest than any on the seacoast;
and therefore I have decided that you shall see both.
You will spend to–morrow in seeing Barcelona, which
may easily be seen in one day by those who do not
wish to make a critical survey of the country. To–night
the ship’s company of the American Prince will
depart for Saragossa; and will visit Burgos, Valladolid,
the Escurial, Madrid, Toledo, Badajos, and thence
through Portugal to Lisbon, from which they may go
to Cintra and other places. They will reach Lisbon
in about two weeks. To–morrow morning the ship’s
company of the Tritonia and that of the Josephine
will be sent in the steamer direct to Lisbon, from
which place they will make the tour, reversed, back
to Barcelona. The ship’s company of the American
Prince will return to Barcelona in their own vessel,
which will wait for them at Lisbon. When all hands
are on board again, the squadron will sail along
the coast, visiting Valencia, Alicante, Carthagena,
Malaga, Gibraltar, and Cadiz; and another interior
trip will be made to Granada, Cordova, and Seville.
This plan will enable you to see about the whole
of Spain. Then we shall have visited nearly every
country in Europe. To–day will be used in coaling
the steamer, and you will go on shore as soon as you
are ready.”

This speech was finished with another demonstration
of applause; and the principal immediately returned
to the Prince, alongside of which several coal–barges
had already taken their places. The students
had put on their go–ashore uniforms, and were in readiness
to take a nearer view of the city. The officers
and crew of the Prince had packed their bags for the
two weeks’ trip through Spain, and her boats were now
pulling to the landing–place near the foot of the _Rambla_.
Those of the Josephine and Tritonia soon followed
them.

The _alguacil_ remained on board of the Tritonia.
He had a recent photograph of Raimundo, obtained
in New York by Don Alejandro’s agent; and he was
confident that the fugitive had not left the vessel with
the rest of the students. As it was necessary for the
adult boatswain and carpenter, Marline and Rimmer,
to go on shore with the boats in order to take charge
of them, the two prisoners in the brig were left in care
of the head steward. When the vessel was deserted
by all but the cooks and stewards, the _alguacil_ made
another diligent search for the ward of his employer,
but with no better success than before. He tried to
talk with Salter, the chief steward; but that individual
did not know a word of Spanish, and he did not get
ahead very fast. In the course of an hour, he seemed
to be disgusted with his occupation, and, calling a
shore boat, he left the Tritonia. Probably Don Francisco
had directed him to use his own judgment as to
the time he was to remain on board.

Mr. Salter was the chief steward of the Tritonia, and
he had a great deal of business of his own to attend to,
so that he could not occupy himself very closely in
looking after the marines in the brig. He was obliged
to make up his accounts, which were required to be as
accurately and methodically kept as though the vessel
were a man–of–war. His desk was in the cabin, for he
was an officer of no little consequence on board.
Though the passage–way between the cabin and the
steerage was open, he could not see, from the place
where he was seated, what the prisoners were about, or
hear their conversation. They had their books in the
brig, though they did not study their neglected lessons.
But what they said and what they did must be reserved
till a later time in the day; for it would not be fair to
leave all the good students to wander about Barcelona
without any attention.

The boats landed, and for the first time the young
voyagers stood on the soil of Spain. Captain Wainwright,
Scott, and O’Hara were among those who were
permitted to take care of themselves, while not a few
were in charge of the vice–principals and the professors.
Those who were privileged to go where they pleased
without any supervision chose their own companions.
Scott and O’Hara were inclined to train in the same
company; and Captain Sheridan and Lieutenant Murray
of the steamer, with whom both of them had been
formerly very intimate, hailed them as they came on
shore. The four formed a party for the day. It was a
very desirable party too, for the reason that Dr. Winstock,
an old traveller in Spain, as indeed he was in all
the countries of Europe, was as great a crony of Sheridan
as he once had been of Paul Kendall, the first
captain of the Josephine, and a commander of the
Young America. The surgeon shook hands with Scott
and O’Hara, and then led the way to the _Rambla_,
which is the broad avenue extending through the centre
of the city.

“Barcelona, I suppose you know, young gentlemen,
is the second city in Spain in population, and has nearly
or quite two hundred thousand inhabitants,” said the
doctor, as the party entered the _Rambla_. “It is by
far the most important commercial city, and is quite a
manufacturing place besides. There are several cotton,
silk, and woollen mills outside of the walls; and
ten years ago the imports of cotton from the United
States were worth nearly five millions of dollars.”

“What do you call our country in Spanish, doctor?”
asked Sheridan.

“_Los Estados Unidos de America_,” replied Dr. Winstock.
“By the way, O’Hara, do you speak Spanish?”

“No, sir: I spake only Oyrish and Oytalian,”
laughed the fourth lieutenant of the Tritonia.

“Though Spanish and Italian are very much alike,
each of them seems to be at war with the other. Ford,
in Murray’s Hand–book for Spain, says that a knowledge
of Italian will prove a constant stumbling–block in
learning Spanish. I found it so myself. Before I
came to Spain the first time I could speak the language
very well, and talked it whole evenings with my professor.
Then I took lessons in Italian; but I soon found
my Spanish so confused and confounded that I could
not speak it at all.”

“Then I won’t try to learn Spanish,” added O’Hara.

“Here is the post–office on your right, and the _Teatro
Principal_ on the left; but it is not the principal theatre
at the present time.”

“This street—I suppose they would call it a boulevard
in Paris—is not unlike ‘_Unter den Linden_’ in
Berlin,” said Murray. “It has the rows of trees in the
middle.”

“But the time to visit the _Rambla_ is just before night
on a pleasant day, when it is crowded with people.
Barcelona is not so thoroughly Spanish as some other
cities of Spain—Madrid and Seville, for instance.
The people are quite different from the traditional
Spaniard, who is too dignified and proud to engage in
commerce or to work at any honest business; while the
Catalans are an industrious and thriving people, first–rate
sailors, quick, impulsive, and revolutionary in their
character. They are more like Frenchmen than Spaniards.”

“There is a square up that narrow street,” said
Sheridan.

“That’s the _Plaza Real_,—Royal Square,—surrounded
by houses with arcades, like the _Palais Royal_
in Paris. In the centre of it is a fine monument, dedicated
to the Catholic kings, as distinguished from the
Moorish sovereigns, and dedicated to Ferdinand and
Isabella; and you remember that Catalonia became a
part of Aragon, and was annexed to Castile by the marriage
of their respective sovereigns. This is the _Rambla
del Centro_, for this broad avenue has six names in its
length of three–quarters of a mile. Here is the _Calle
Fernando_ on our right, which is the next street in importance
to the _Rambla_, and, like it, has several names for
its different parts. Now we have the _Teatro del Lico_ on
our left, which is built on the plan of _La Scala_ at Milan,
and is said to be the largest theatre in Europe, seating
comfortably four thousand people.”

Dr. Winstock continued to point out the various
objects of interest on the way; but most of them were
more worthy to be looked at than to be written about.
The party walked the entire length of the _Rambla_ to
the _Plaza de Cataluña_, which is a small park, with a
fountain in the centre. Taking another street, they
reached a point near the centre of the city, where the
cathedral is located. It is a Gothic structure, built in
the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In 1519 Charles V.
presided in the choir of this church over a general
assembly of the Knights of the Golden Fleece. Under
the high altar is the crypt or tomb of St. Eulalia, the
patron saint of the city. She suffered martyrdom in
the fourth century; and it is said that her remains were
discovered five hundred years after her death, by the
sweet odor they emitted. Her soul ascended to heaven
in the visible form of a dove.

Near the cathedral, on the _Plaza de la Constitucion_,
or Constitution Square, are the Town Hall and the
Parliament House, in which the commons of Catalonia
met before it became a part of the kingdom of Aragon.
Between this square and the _Rambla_ is the church of
_Santa Maria del Pino_, Gothic, built a little later than
the cathedral. Its name is derived from a tradition that
the image of the Virgin was found in the trunk of a pine–tree,
and because this tree is the emblem of the Catholic
faith, ever green and ever pointing to heaven. On
the altars of two of its chapels, Jews were allowed to
take an oath in any suit with a Christian, or to establish
the validity of a will, and for similar purposes. In
another church Hebrews are permitted to take oath on
the Ten Commandments, placed on an altar.

The party visited several other churches, and finally
reached the great square near the head of the port, on
which are located the Royal Palace, the Exchange, and
the Custom House; but there is nothing remarkable
about them. There are fifty fountains in the city, the
principal of which is in the palace square. It is an
allegorical representation of the four provinces of Catalonia.

“There is not much to see in Barcelona,” said Dr.
Winstock, as they walked along the sea–wall, in the
resort called the _Muralla del Mar_. “This is a commercial
city, and you do not see much that is distinctively
Spanish. Commerce with other nations is very
apt to wear away the peculiarities of any people.”

“But where are the Spaniards? I don’t think I have
seen any of them,” added Sheridan.

“Probably most of the people you have met in our
walk were Spaniards,” replied the doctor.

“Don’t we see the national costume?”

“You will have to go to a bull–fight to see that,”
laughed the surgeon; “and then only the men who
take part in the spectacle will wear the costume. The
audience will be dressed in about the same fashion you
have seen all over Europe. Perhaps if you go over
into Barceloneta you will find some men clothed in the
garb of the Catalans.”

“Shall we see a bull–fight?” asked Scott.

“Not in Barcelona. I suppose, if there should be an
opportunity, the principal would allow all who wished
to see it to do so; for it is a Spanish institution, and the
traveller ought not to leave Spain without seeing one.
But it is a sickening sight; and, after you have seen one
or two poor old horses gored to death by the bull, you
will not care to have any more of it. The people of
this city are not very fond of the sport; and the affair
is tame here compared with the bull–fights of Madrid
and Seville.”

At three o’clock those of the party who belonged to
the steamer departed for Saragossa. Scott and O’Hara
wandered about the city the rest of the day, visiting
Barceloneta, and taking an outside view of the bull–ring,
or _Plaza de Toros_, which is about the same thing
as in all the other large cities of the country. They
dined at a French restaurant in the _Rambla_, where
they did not go hungry for the want of a language. At
an early hour they returned to the Tritonia, where they
were to spend another night before their departure in
the American Prince.



CHAPTER VII.

FIRE AND WATER.


“What’s going on, Bark?” asked Bill Stout,
as all hands were called to go on shore; and
perhaps this was the hundredth time this question had
been put by one or the other of the occupants of the
brig since the ship’s company turned out that morning.

“All hands are going on shore,” replied Bark Lingall.
“I hope they will have a good time; and I am
thankful that I am not one of them, to be tied to the
coat–tail of Professor Primback.”

The marines knew all about the events that had
transpired on board of the vessel since she anchored,
including the strange disappearance of Raimundo.
Ben Pardee had contrived to tell them all they wanted
to know, while most of the students were on deck.
But he and Lon Gibbs had not been informed of the
conspiracy to burn the Tritonia. Bark had simply
told them that “something was up,” and they must do
some mischief to get committed to the brig before they
could take a hand in the game. Lon and Ben had
talked the matter over between themselves, and were
ready to do as required till the orders came for the
Josephines and the Tritonias to proceed to Lisbon in
the Prince. The voyage in the steamer had too many
attractions to permit them to lose it. They had done
better in their lessons than Bill and Bark, who had
purposely neglected theirs.

“I should not object to the voyage in the Prince,”
said Bark.

“Nor I, if I had known about it; but it is too late
now to back out. We are in for it,—in the brig.
We shall have a better chance to get off when all the
professors are away,” added Bill.

“There don’t appear to be any one taking care of
us just now,” said Bark, after he had looked through
the bars of the prison, and satisfied himself that no
one but themselves was in the steerage. “Marline
had to go on shore with the crowd to take care of the
boats; and so had the carpenter.”

“Some one has the care of us, I know,” replied
Bill. “But I can soon find out.”

Bill Stout began to pound on the slats of the cage;
and the noise soon brought the chief steward to the
brig.

“What are you about in there?” demanded Mr.
Salter.

“I want to see Mr. Marline or Mr. Rimmer,” replied
Bill, meekly enough.

“They are both gone on shore to take charge of the
boats, and won’t be back till night,” added Salter.
“What do you want?”

“I want a drink of water: I am almost choked,”
answered Bill.

“You don’t want Mr. Rimmer for that,” said Salter,
as he left the brig.

In a moment he returned with a pitcher of water,
which he handed into the cage through the slide.
Having done this, he returned to the cabin to resume
his work.

“I’ll bet he is alone on board!” exclaimed Bill, as
soon as Salter had gone.

“I think not,” replied Bark.

“Why did he bring the water himself, then?”

“I don’t know; perhaps the stewards are all on
deck.”

“No: he always lets most of his men go on shore
when we are in port. I don’t believe there is more
than one of them on board,” continued Bill, with no
little excitement in his manner.

“I heard some one walking on deck since the boats
went off. It may have been Salter; but I am sure he
is not alone on board.”

“No matter, if there are only two or three left.
Now is our time, Bark!” whispered Bill Stout.

“We may be burnt up in the vessel: we are locked
into the brig,” suggested Bark.

“No danger of that. When the fire breaks out,
Salter will unlock the door of the cage. If he don’t we
can break it down.”

“What then?” queried Bark. “Every boat belonging
to the vessel is gone, and we might get singed in
the scrape.”

“Nonsense, Bark! At the worst we could swim
ashore to that old light–house.”

“Well, what are we going to do then? We wear the
uniform of the fleet, and we shall be known wherever
we go,” added the more prudent Bark.

“You have money enough, and so have I. All we
have to do is to buy a suit of clothes apiece, and then
we shall be all right.”

They discussed the matter for half an hour longer.
Bark was willing to admit that the time for putting the
villanous scheme in operation was more favorable than
any that was likely to be afforded them in the future.
Though the professors were all on shore, they believed
they could easily keep out of their way in a city so
large as Barcelona.

“Suppose Salter should come into the steerage when
you are down in the hold?” suggested Bark.

“That would be bad,” replied Bill, shaking his head.
“But we must take some risk. We will wait till he
comes in to take a look at us, and then I will do the job.
He won’t come in again for half an hour; for I suppose
he is busy in the cabin, as he always is while we are in
port.”

They had to wait half an hour more before the chief
steward came into the steerage. Though he intended to
be a faithful officer, Mr. Salter was wholly absorbed in
his accounts, and he did not like to leave them even for
a moment. He went into the steerage far enough to see
that both of the prisoners were safe in the cage, and
hastened back to his desk.

“We are all right now,” whispered Bill, as he bent
down to the scuttle that led into the hold.

“If you make any noise at all the chief steward will
hear you,” replied Bark, hardly less excited than his
companion in villany.

Bill raised the trap–door with the utmost care. As
he made no noise, Mr. Salter heard none. Bill had his
matches all ready, with the paper he had prepared for
the purpose. He had taken off his shoes, so as to
make no noise on the steps. He was not absent from
the brig more than two minutes, and Salter was still
absorbed in his accounts. Bark carefully adjusted the
scuttle when Bill came up; and he could smell the
burning straw as he did so.

Bill put on his shoes with all the haste he could,
without making any noise; and both the conspirators
tried to look as though nothing had happened, or was
about to happen. They were intensely excited, of
course, for they expected the flames would burst up
through the cabin floor in a few moments. Bark
looked over the slats of the cage to find where the
weakest of them were, so as to be ready, in case it
should be necessary, to break out.

“Do you smell the fire?” asked Bill, when his anxiety
had become so great that he could no longer keep
still.

“I did smell it when the scuttle was off; but I don’t
smell it now,” replied Bark.

“What was that noise?” asked Bill.

Both of them had heard it, and it seemed to be in
the hold. They could not tell what it was like, only
that it was a noise.

“What could it be?” mused Bill. “It was in the
hold, and not far from the foot of the ladder.”

“Perhaps it was the noise of the fire,” suggested
Bark. “It may have burned away so that one of the
boxes tumbled down.”

“That must have been it,” replied Bill, satisfied with
this plausible explanation. “But why don’t the fire
break out? It is time for it to show itself, for fire travels
fast.”

“I suppose it has not got a–going yet. Very likely
the straw and stuff is damp, and does not burn very
freely.”

“It will be a sure thing this time, for I saw the blaze
rising when I came up the ladder,” added Bill.

“And I saw it myself also.”

“But it ought to be a little hot by this time,” replied
Bill, who began to have a suspicion that every thing was
not working according to the programme.

“You know best how you fixed things down below.
The fire may have burned the straw all up without lighting
the ceiling of the vessel.”

At least ten minutes had elapsed since the match
had been applied to the combustibles, and it was certainly
time that the fire should begin to appear in the
steerage. But there was no fire, and not even the
smell of fire, to be perceived. The conspirators were
astonished at the non–appearance of the blaze; and
after waiting ten minutes more they were satisfied that
the fire was not making any progress.

“It is a failure again,” said Bark Lingall. “There
will be no conflagration to–day.”

“Yes, there will, if I have to set it a dozen times,”
replied Bill Stout, setting his teeth firmly together. “I
don’t understand it. I certainly saw the blaze before I
left the hold; and I couldn’t have done the job any
better if I had tried for a week.”

“You did it all right, without a doubt; but a fire will
not always burn after you touch it off,” answered Bark,
willing to console his companion in his failure.

“I will go down again, and see what the matter is, at
any rate. If I can’t get up a blaze in the hold, I will
see what I can do in one of the mess–rooms,” added
Bill stoutly.

“How can you get into one of the mess–rooms?”
asked Bark. “You forget that we are locked into the
brig.”

“No, I don’t forget it; but you seem to forget that
we can go down into the hold, and go up by the forward
scuttle into the steerage.”

“You are right, Bill. I did not think of that,” said
Bark. “And you can also go aft, and up by the after
scuttle into the cabin. I remember now that there are
three ways to get into the hold.”

“I haven’t forgot it for a moment,” added Bill, with
something like triumph in his tones. “I am going
down once more to see why the blaze didn’t do as it
was expected to do.”

“Not yet, Bill. Wait till Salter has been into the
steerage again.”

“It isn’t twenty minutes since he was here; and he
will not come again for half an hour at least.”

Bill Stout felt that he had done enough, and had
proved that he knew enough, to entitle him to have his
own way. Raising the scuttle, he descended into the
hold. He did not dare to remain long, lest the chief
steward should come into the steerage, and discover
that he was not in the brig. But he remained long
enough to ascertain the reason why the fire did not
burn; and, filled with amazement, he returned to communicate
the discovery he had made to his fellow–conspirator.
When he had closed the trap, and turned
around to confront Bark, his face was the very picture
of astonishment and dismay.

“Well, what’s the matter, Bill?” asked Bark, who
could not help seeing the strange expression on the
countenance of his shipmate.

“Matter enough! I should say that the Evil One was
fighting against us, Bark,” replied his companion.

“I should say that the Evil One is fighting on the
other side, if on either,” added Bark. “But what have
you found?”

“The fire is out, and the straw and other stuff feels
just as though a bucket of water had been thrown
upon it. At any rate, it is wet,” answered Bill.

“Nonsense! no water could have been thrown upon
it.”

“How does it happen to be wet, then?”

“The hold of a vessel is apt to be a damp place.”

“Damp! I tell you it was wet!” protested Bill; and
the mysterious circumstance seemed to awe and alarm
him.

“Certainly no water could have been thrown upon
the fire,” persisted Bark.

“How happens it to be wet, then? That’s what I
want to know.”

“Do you think any water was thrown on the straw?”

“I don’t see how it could have been; but I know it
was wet,” replied Bill.

“Very likely the dry stuff burned off, and the wet
straw would not take fire,” suggested Bark, who was
good for accounting for strange things.

“That may be; I did not think of that,” mused Bill.
“But there is a pile of old dunnage on the starboard
side, and some more straw and old boxes and things
there; and I will try it on once more. I have got
started, and I’m going to do the job if I hang for it.”

“Wait till Salter has been in again before you go
below,” said Bark.

Bill was content to wait. To his desire for freedom,
was added the feeling of revenge for being committed
to the brig when all hands were about to make a
voyage in the Prince. He was determined to destroy
the Tritonia,—more determined than when he first attempted
the crime. In a short time the chief steward
made another visit to the steerage, and again returned
to the cabin.

“Now is my time,” said Bill, when he was satisfied
that Salter had reached the cabin.

“Be careful this time,” added Bark, as he raised the
scuttle.

“I shall be careful, but I shall make a sure thing of
it,” replied Bill, stepping upon the narrow ladder, and
descending.

Bill Stout was absent full five minutes this time; and,
when he returned to the brig, he had not lighted the
train that was to complete the destruction of the Tritonia.

“I had no paper, and I could not make a blaze,”
said he. “Have you a newspaper about you, Bill?”

“No, I have not: I do not carry papers around with
me.”

“What shall I do? I can’t light the rubbish without
something that is entirely dry.”

“Here,” answered Bark, picking up one of the neglected
text–books on the floor. “You can get as much
paper as you want out of this book.”

“But that won’t do,” replied Bill. “I thought you
were a very prudent fellow.”

“So I am.”

“If I should miss fire again, and this book or any
part of it should be found in the pile, it would blow the
whole thing upon us.”

“Tear out a lot of the leaves; and they will be sure
to be burnt, if you light them with the match.”

As no other paper could be obtained, Bill consented
to tear out some of the leaves of the book, and use
them for his incendiary purpose. Bark declared that
what was left of it would soon be in ashes, and there
was nothing to fear as to its being a telltale against
them. Once more Bill descended into the hold; and,
as he had made every thing ready during his last visit,
he was absent only long enough to light the paper, and
thrust it into the pile of combustibles he had gathered.
He had placed several small sticks of pine, which had
been split to kindle the fire in the galley, on the heap
of rubbish, in order to give more body to the fire when
it was lighted. He paused an instant to see the flame
rise from the pile, and then fled up the ladder.

“Hurry up!” whispered Bark at the scuttle. “I
hear Salter moving about in the cabin.”

But the trap–door was returned to its place before
the chief steward appeared; and he only looked into
the steerage.

“The job is done this time, you may bet your life!”
exclaimed Bill, as he seated himself on his stool, and
tried to look calm and self–possessed.

“I saw the blaze,” added Bark. “Let’s look down,
and see if it is going good.”

“No, no!” protested Bill earnestly. “We don’t
want to run a risk for nothing.”

Both of the young villains waited with throbbing
hearts for the bursting out of the flames, which they
thought would run up the ceiling of the vessel, and
communicate the fire to the berths on the starboard
side of the steerage. Five minutes—ten minutes—a
quarter of an hour, they waited for the catastrophe;
but no smoke, no flame, appeared. Bill Stout could not
understand it again. Another quarter of an hour they
waited, but less confidently than before.

“No fire yet, Bill,” said Bark, with a smile.

“I don’t know what it means,” replied the puzzled
incendiary. “You saw the fire, and so did I; and I
can’t see why the blaze don’t come up through the
deck.”

“It is very odd, Bill; and I can’t see through it any
better than you can,” added Bark. “It don’t look as
though we were to have a burn to–day.”

“We are bound to have it!” insisted Bill Stout. “I
shall try next time in one of the mess–rooms.”

“With all the pains and precautions to prevent fire
on board, it seems that the jolly craft won’t burn. No
fellow has been allowed to have a match, or even to
take a lantern into the hold; and now you can’t make
the vessel burn when you try with all your might.”

“The Evil One is working against us,” continued Bill,
who could make no other explanation of the repeated
failures.

“If he is, he is on the wrong side; for we have done
nothing to make him desert us,” laughed Bark. “We
certainly deserve better of him.”

“I am going below to see what was the matter this
time,” added Bill, as he raised the trap–door.

Bark offered no opposition to his purpose, and Bill
went down the ladder. He was not gone more than a
couple of minutes this time; and when he returned he
looked as though he had just come out of the abode of
the party who was working against him. He seemed
to be transfixed with wonder and surprise; and for a
moment he stood in silence in the presence of his fellow–conspirator.

“What’s the matter with you, Bill? You look like a
stuck pig that has come back to haunt the butcher,”
said Bark, trying to rally his associate. “Did you see
any spirits in the hold? This is a temperance ship,
and the principal don’t allow any on board.”

“You may laugh, Bark, if you like; but I believe
the evil spirit is in the hold,” replied Bill impressively.

“What makes you think so, Bill?”

“The pile of rubbish is as wet as water can make it.
Do you suppose there is any one in the hold?”

“Who could be there?” demanded Bark.

“I don’t know; but it seems to me some one is down
there, who puts water on the fire every time I light it.
I can’t explain it in any other way.”

“Nonsense! No one could by any possibility be in
the hold. If any one of the stewards had gone down,
we should have seen him.”

After more discussion neither of the conspirators
was willing to believe there was any person in the hold.
It was not a place a man would be likely to stay in any
longer than he was compelled to do so. It was partially
ventilated by a couple of small shafts, and very
dimly lighted by four small panes of heavy glass set in
the cabin and steerage floors, under the skylights. It
was not more than four feet high where the greatest
elevation was had; that is, between the dunnage that
covered the ballast, and the timbers on which the floors
of the between–decks rested. It was not a desirable
place for any one to remain in, though there was nothing
in it that was destructive to human life. It was
simply a very dingy and uncomfortable retreat for a
human being.

“I am going to try it on just once more,” said Bill
Stout, after his suspicions of a supernatural interference
had subsided. “I know there was water thrown on the
pile of rubbish. It seems to me the Evil One must have
used a fire–engine on the heap, after I had lighted the
fire. But I am going to know about it this time, if I
am condemned to the brig for the rest of my natural
life. There is quite a pile of old boxes and cases split
up in the hold, ready for use in the galley. I am going
to touch off this heap of wood, and stand by till I see
it well a–going. I want you to shut the door when I go
down next time; for Salter will not come in for half an
hour or more. I am going to see what puts the fire
out every time I light it.”

“But suppose Salter comes into the steerage, and
finds you are not here: what shall I say to him?”

“Tell him I am in the hold,—any thing you please.
I don’t care what becomes of me now.”

Bill Stout raised the trap–door, and descended; and,
in accordance with the instructions of that worthy,
Bark closed it as soon as his head disappeared below
the steerage floor. Bill lighted up the pile of kindling–wood;
and then, with a quantity of leaves he had torn
from the book, he set fire to the heap of combustibles.
The blaze rose from the pile, and promised that the
result that the conspirators had been laboring to produce
would be achieved. True to the plan he had
arranged, Bill waited, and watched the blaze he had
kindled; but the fire had scarcely lighted up the
gloomy hold, before a bucket of water was dashed on
the pile of wood, and the flames were completely extinguished.
There was somebody in the hold, after all; and
Bill was almost paralyzed when he realized the fact.

The fire was put out; and the solitary fireman of the
hold moved aft. Bill watched him, and was unable to
determine whether he was a human being, or a spirit
from the other world. But he was desperate to a degree
he had never been before. He stooped down
over the extinguished combustibles to ascertain whether
they were really wet, or whether some magic had
quenched the flame which a minute before had promised
to make an end of the Tritonia. The water still
hung in drops on the kindling–wood. He stirred up
the wood, and lighted another match, which he applied
to the dryest sticks he could find.

“What are you about, you villain? Do you mean
to burn the vessel?” demanded a voice near him, the
owner of which instantly stamped out the fire with his
feet.

The mystery was solved; for Bill recognized the
voice of Raimundo, whose mysterious disappearance
had excited so much astonishment on board of the
vessel.



CHAPTER VIII.

SARAGOSSA AND BURGOS.


The ship’s company of the American Prince departed
from Barcelona at three o’clock in the
afternoon, for Saragossa, or Zaragoza as the Spaniards
spell it. At first the route was through a beautiful and
highly cultivated country, and then into the mountains.
By five o’clock it was too dark to see the landscape;
and the students, tired after the labors of the day, were
disposed to settle themselves into the easiest positions
they could find, and many of them went to sleep.

At Manresa the train stopped for supper, which was
all ready for the students when they arrived, Mr. Lowington
had employed four experienced couriers for the
double tour across the peninsula. One was to precede
each of the two parties to engage accommodations, and
make terms with landlords, railroad agents, and others;
and one was to attend each party to render such service
as might be required of him. The journeys were all
arranged beforehand, so that trains were to have extra
cars, and meals were to be ready at stations and hotels.

The train arrived at Saragossa just before four o’clock
in the morning. The cars, or carriages as they are
called in Europe, were precisely like those in use in
England. Only six persons were put in each compartment;
and the boys contrived various plans to obtain
comfortable positions for sleeping. Some of them
spread their overcoats on the floor for beds, using
their bags for pillows; and others made couches on the
seats. Most of them were able to sleep the greater
part of the night. But the _Fonda del Universo_ was
prepared for their reception, and they were glad enough
to turn into the fifty beds ready for them.

At nine o’clock all hands were piped to breakfast.
The meal was served in courses, and was essentially
French. Some of the waiters spoke French; but there
was really no need of saying any thing, for each dish of
the bill of fare was presented to every person at the
table. After the meal, the students were assembled in
the large reading–room,—the hotel had been recently
built,—and Professor Mapps was called upon by the
principal to say something about Saragossa, in order
that the tourists might know a little of the history of
the place they were visiting. The instructor took a
convenient position, and began his remarks:—

“The old monks used to write history something
after the manner of the Knickerbocker’s History of
New York; and they put it on record that Saragossa
was founded by Tubal, nephew of Noah; but you will
not believe this. The city probably originated with the
Phoenicians, and was a place of great importance in
the time of Julius Cæsar, who saw its military value as
commanding the passage of the Ebro, and built a wall
around it. It was captured by the Suevi in 452, and
taken from them by the Goths fourteen years later. In
the eighth century the Moors obtained possession of
the city, and held it till the twelfth, when it was conquered
by Alfonso of Aragon. It contains many relics
of the Roman and Moorish works.

“Saragossa has been the scene of several noted
sieges, the most famous of which was that of 1808,
when the French captured the place after the most
desperate resistance on the part of the Aragonese.
The brave defenders of the city had no regular military
organization, and were ill–provided with arms and
ammunition. The people chose for a leader a young
man whose name was Palafox: he was as brave as a
lion, but not versed in military science. The siege
lasted sixty–two days, and the fighting was almost incessant.
It was ‘war to the knife’ on the part of the
Aragonese, and they rejected all overtures to surrender.
Famine made fearful havoc among them, and every
house was a hospital. Even the priests and the women
joined in the strife. I dare say you have all heard of
the ‘Maid of Saragossa,’ who is represented in pictures
as a young woman assisting in working a gun in
the battle. Her name was Augustina; and she was a
very pretty girl of twenty–two. Her lover was a cannonneer,
and she fought by his side. When he was
mortally wounded, she worked the gun herself. You
will find something about her in ‘Childe Harold.’

“At length the French got into the town; but the
conflict was not finished, for the people fought for
twenty–one days more in the streets. Fifteen thousand
were either dead or dying when the French entered the
city. At last the authorities agreed to surrender, but
only on the most honorable terms. It has been estimated,
that, out of a population of one hundred and
fifty thousand, fifty–four thousand perished in battle or
by famine and pestilence.”

After these brief remarks, the party separated, and
divided up into small squads to see the city as they
pleased. As usual, Captain Sheridan and Murray
joined themselves to Dr. Winstock, who was as much
at home in Saragossa as he was in Paris.

“You will find that this city is thoroughly Spanish;
and doubtless you will see some of the native costumes,”
said the doctor, as they left the hotel.

“But this hotel is as much French as though it were
in France,” added Murray, who desired when in Spain
to do as the Spaniards did, so as to learn what they do.

“That is very true; but we shall come to the true
Spanish hotel in due time, and I have no doubt you
will get enough of it in a very short time,” laughed
Dr. Winstock. “There are three classes of hotels in
Spain, though at the present time they are all about the
same thing. A _fonda_ is a regular hotel; a _posada_ is
the tavern of the smaller country towns; and a _venta_
is a still lower grade of inn. A drinking–shop, which
we sometimes call a ‘saloon’ in the United States, is
a _ventorro_ or a _ventorillo_; and a _taberna_ is a place
where smoking and wine–drinking are the business of
their frequenters. A _parador_ is a hotel where the diligences
stop for meals, and may also be a _fonda_.”

“A _fonda_ is a hotel,” said Sheridan; “and we may
not be able to remember any more than that.”

“When you see the names I have given you on the
signs, you will understand what they mean. But our
business now is to see this city. Like Barcelona, it has
one principal wide street extending through the middle
of it: all the other avenues are nothing more than
lanes, very narrow and very dirty. It is on the Ebro,
and has a population of some eighty thousand people.”

“How happens it that this place is not colder? It
is in about the same latitude as New York City; and
now, in the month of December, it is comfortably
warm,” said Sheridan.

“These valleys have a mild climate; and the vine
and olive are their principal productions. It is not so
on the high table–land in the centre of Spain. At
Madrid, for instance, the weather will be found to be
quite cold at this time. The weather is so bitter there
sometimes that the sentinels on guard have to be
changed every quarter of an hour, as they are in
danger of being frozen to death.”

The party walked first to the great square, in the
centre of which is a public fountain. They paused to
look at the people. Most of the men wore some kind of
a mantle or cloak. This garment was sometimes the
Spanish circular cloak, worn with a style and grace
that the Spaniard alone can attain. That of the poorer
class was often nothing but a striped blanket, which,
however, they slung about them with no little of the air
of those who wore better garments. They were generally
tall, muscular, but rather bony fellows, with an
expression as solemn as though they were doing duty
at a funeral. Some of them wore the broad–brimmed
_sombrero_; some had handkerchiefs wound around their
heads, like turbans; and others sported the ordinary
hat or cap.

The party could not help laughing when they saw,
for the first time, a priest wearing a hat which extended
fore and aft at least three feet, with the sides rolled up
close to the body. Everybody was dignified, and
moved about at a funeral pace.

At the fountain women and girls were filling the jars
of odd shape with water, and bearing them away poised
on one of their hips or on the head. Several donkeys
were standing near, upon which their owners were loading
the sacks of water they had filled.

“Bags of water!” exclaimed Murray.

“They do not call them bags, but skins,” said the
doctor. “You can see the legs and neck of the animal,
which are very convenient in handling them. These
skins are more easily transported on the backs of the
donkeys than barrels, kegs, or jars could be. Many
kinds of wine are transported in these skins, which
could hardly be carried on the back of an animal in any
other way. Except a few great highways, Spain is not
provided with roads. In some places, when you ride in
a carriage, you will take to the open fields; and very
rough indeed they are sometimes.”

The party proceeded on their walk, and soon reached
the Cathedral of San Salvador, generally called _El Seo_;
a term as applicable to any other cathedral in Aragon
as to this one. It is a sombre old structure: a part of
it is said to have been built in the year 290; and pious
people have been building it till within three hundred
and fifty years of the present time. There are some
grand monuments in it; among them that of Arbues,
who was assassinated for carrying out the decrees of
the Inquisition. The people of Aragon did not take
kindly to this institution; but the murder was terribly
avenged, and the Inquisition established its authority in
the midst of the tumult it had excited. Murillo, the
great Spanish painter, made the assassination of Arbues
the subject of one of his principal pictures.

Saragossa has two cathedrals, the second of which
is called _El Pilar_, because it contains the very pillar
on which the Virgin landed when she came down from
heaven in one of her visits to Spain. It appears
that St. James—Santiago in Spanish—came to Spain
after the crucifixion of the Saviour, in the year 40, to
preach the gospel to the natives. When he had got
as far as Saragossa, he was naturally tired, and went to
sleep. In this state the Virgin came to him with a
message from the Saviour, requiring him to build a
chapel in honor of herself. She stood on a jasper
pillar, and was attended by a multitude of angels. St.
James obeyed the command of the heavenly visitor,
and erected a small chapel, only sixteen feet long and
half as wide, where the Virgin often attended public
worship in subsequent years. On this spot, and over
the original chapel, was built the present church. On
the pillar stands a dingy image of the Virgin, which
is said to be from the studio of St. Luke, who appears
to have been both a painter and a sculptor. It is
clothed in the richest velvet, brocade, and satin, and
is spangled with gold and diamonds. It cures all diseases
to which flesh is heir; for which the grateful
persons thus healed have bestowed the most costly
presents. It is little less than sacrilege to express
any disbelief in this story of the Virgin, or in the
miracles achieved by the image.

Dr. Winstock and his young companions went from
the churches, to take a walk in the older part of the
city. The narrow streets reminded them of Constantinople,
while many of the buildings were similar, the
upper part projecting out over the street. The balconies
were shaded with mats, like the parti–colored
draperies that hang from the windows in Naples.
Many of the houses were of the Moorish fashion, with
the _patio_, or court–yard, in the centre, with galleries
around it, from which admission to the various apartments
is obtained. Saragossa has a leaning tower
built of brick, which was the campanile, or belfry, of
the town.

The party of the surgeon spent the rest of the day in
a walk through the surrounding country, crossing the
Ebro to the suburb of the city. Near the bridge they
met a couple of ladies who wore the mantilla, a kind of
veil worn as a head–dress, instead of the bonnet, which
is a part of the national costume of Spain. All over
Spain this fashion prevails, though of course the modes
of Paris are adopted by the most fashionable ladies of
the capital and other cities.

At four o’clock the ship’s company dined at the
hotel, and then wandered about the city at will till dark.
They were advised to retire at an early hour, and most
of them did so. They were called at half–past four in
the morning, and at six were on the train. At half–past
eight they were at Tudela, the head of navigation on
the Ebro. At quarter past one they were at Miranda,
on the line from Bayonne to Madrid, where dinner was
waiting for them. This meal was decidedly Spanish,
though it was served in courses. The soup was odorous
of garlic, which is the especial vice of Spanish
cookery to those who have an aversion to it. Then
came the national dish, the _olla podrida_, a kind of stew
made of every kind of meat and every kind of vegetable,
not omitting a profusion of garlic. Some of the
students declared that it was “first–rate.” A few did
not like it at all, and more were willing to tolerate it.
We do not consider it “bad to take.” The next dish
was calves’ brains fried in batter, which is not national,
but is oftener had at the hotels than _olla podrida_. The
next course was mutton chops, followed by roast
chicken, with a salad. The dessert was fruit and
raisins. On the table was plenty of _Val de Peñas_ wine,
which the students were forbidden to taste.

At half–past two the tourists departed, and at twenty
minutes to six arrived in the darkness at Burgos. The
port watch went to the _Fonda del Norte_, and the starboard
to the _Fonda Rafaela_. The doctor and the captain were
at the latter, and it was more like the inns of Don
Quixote’s time than any that Sheridan had seen. It
had no public room except the _comedor_, or dining–room.
The hotel seemed to be a number of buildings thrown
together around a court–yard, on one side of which was
the stable. Sheridan and Murray were shown to a
room with six other students, but the apartment contained
four beds. It was large enough for four more,
being not less than thirty feet long, and half as wide.
It was comfortably furnished, and every thing about it
was clean and neat. The establishment was not unlike
an old–fashioned country tavern in New England.

Dinner, or, as the students called it, supper, was
served at six o’clock. The meal was Spanish, being
about the same as the one they had taken at Miranda.
Instead of the _olla podrida_ was a kind of stew, which
in the days of Gil Blas would have been called a
_ragout_.

“This isn’t a bad dinner,” said Murray, when they
had finished the third course.

“It is a very good one, I think,” replied Sheridan.

“I have been reading books of travel in Spain for
the last two weeks, most of them written by Englishmen;
and I had come to the conclusion that we should
be starved to death if we left the ship for more than
a day or two. The writers found a great deal of fault
with their food, and growled about garlic. I rather like
garlic.”

“The doctor says the English are very much given
to grumbling about every thing,” added Sheridan. “I
don’t think we shall starve if we are fed as well as we
have been so far.”

“Our room is as good as we have found in most of
the hotels in other countries. So far, the trains on the
railroads have been on time instead of an hour late, as
one writer declared they always were.”

“If one insists upon growling, it is easy enough to
find something to growl at.”

In the evening some of the party strolled about town,
but it was as quiet as a tomb; for the rule in Spain is,
“Early to bed, and late to rise.” But the students
were out of bed in good time in the morning, and
taking a view of the city. They found a very pretty
promenade along the little river Arlanzon, whose waters
find their way into the Duero; and at a considerable
distance from it obtained a fine view of the great
cathedral. It is impossible to obtain any just view of it,
except at a distance, on account of the mass of buildings
which are huddled around it, and close to it. But the
vast church towers above them all, and presents to
the eye a forest of spires great and small. Near the
river, in an irregular _plaza_, is an old gateway, which is
quite picturesque. The structure looks like a castle,
with round towers at the corners, and circular turrets.
On the front are a number of figures carved in stone.

Breakfast was served at half–past ten, and dinner at
six, at the _Fonda_; but special tables were set for the
students at more convenient hours. A Spanish meal
could not be agreeable to nice and refined American
people. The men often sit with their hats on, and
between the courses smoke a cigarette, or _cigarillo_ in
Spanish. They converse in an energetic tone, but are
polite if addressed, though they mind their own business
severely, and seem to be devoid of curiosity—or at
least are too dignified to stare—in regard to strangers.
The food is very odorous of onions and garlic, and in
the smaller inns consists largely of stews or ragouts,
generally of mutton or kidneys. New cheese, not
pressed, is sometimes an item of the bill of fare. _Val
de Pañas_ wine is furnished free all over Spain at the
_table d’hote_; but it always tastes of the skins in which
it is transported, and most Americans who partake of
it think it is poor stuff. Great quantities of it are
exported to Bordeaux, where it is manufactured into
claret.

After breakfast, the students were assembled to enable
Professor Mapps to tell them something about the
history of the city, to which he added a very full account
of the Cid. Of his remarks we can give only an
abstract.

Burgos is one of the most famous cities of Castile, of
which it was at one time the capital. The name comes
from the same word as “Burg,” and means a fortified
eminence; and such it is, being on the watershed between
the basins of the Ebro and the Duero. It was
founded in 884 by a Castilian knight. It was the
birthplace of Ferdinand Gonzales, who first took the
title of Count of Castile, shook off the yoke of Leon,
and established the kingdom of Castile. The city is
on the direct line to Madrid from Paris. The French
captured the place in 1808; and it was twice besieged
and taken by the Duke of Wellington in the peninsular
war.

The Cid is the popular hero of Spain, and especially
of the people of Burgos. He was the King Arthur of
Spain, and there is about as much romance in his history
as in that of the British demigod. The Cid Campeador,
“knight champion,” was born about 1040, and
died when he was not much over fifty. His name was
Rodrigo Ruy Diaz; and his marvellous exploits are
set forth in the “Poem of the Cid,” believed to have
been written in the twelfth century. It is the oldest
poem in the Spanish language. His first great deed
was to meet the Count Gomez, who had grossly insulted
the Cid’s aged father, in a fair fight in the field, and
utterly vanquish him, cutting off his head. The old
man was unable to eat from brooding over his wrong;
but, when Ruy appeared with the head of the slain
count, his appetite was restored. By some he is said
to have married Ximena, the daughter of his dead
adversary. Great was the fame of the Cid’s prowess
after this exploit. Shortly after this event, five Moorish
kings, with a powerful force, entered Castile; and
the Cid roused the country to oppose their progress,
and fell upon the enemy, routing the five kings with
great slaughter, and making all of them his prisoners.
Then he fought for King Ferdinand against the Aragonese,
and won all that was in dispute. When France
demanded the homage of his king, he entered that
country, and won a victory which settled the question
of homage for all time. After this event he did considerable
domestic fighting when Castile was divided
among the sons of the dead sovereign; and was finally
banished by the new king. He departed with his
knights and men–at–arms, and took up a strong position
in the territory of the Moors, where he made war,
right and left, with all the kingdoms of the peninsula
except his own country, which he had the grace to
except in his conquests. He took Valencia, where he
seems to have established himself. His last exploit in
the flesh was the capture of Murviedro. Then he died,
and was buried in Valencia.

Now that the Cid, who had been the scourge of the
Moors, was dead, the Christians could no longer hold
out against the infidels, and were in danger of losing
what they had gained. In this emergency they clothed
the corpse of the dead hero in armor, and fastened it
on his war–steed, placing his famous sword in his hand.
Thus equipped for battle, the dead Cid was led into the
field in the midst of the soldiers. The very sight of
him struck terror to the hearts of the Moslems, and
the defunct warrior won yet another battle. He was
marched through the land, the enemy fleeing before
him in every direction, to Burgos. He seems not to
have been buried when he got there, but was embalmed
and placed in a chair of state, where he went into the
business of working miracles. His long white beard
fell upon his breast, his sword was at his side, and he
seemed to be alive rather than dead. One day a Jew,
out of bravado, attempted to take hold of his venerable
beard, when the Cid began to draw his sword, whereat
the Jew was so frightened that he fainted away. When
he recovered he at once became a Christian. The Cid
was a fiery man, and did not hesitate to slap the face of
a king or the pope, if he was angry. Even after he was
dead, and sitting in his chair, he sometimes lost his
temper; and Ximine found it expedient to bury him, in
order to keep him out of trouble.

The students went to the cathedral first. It is a vast
pile of buildings, and is considered one of the finest
churches in Europe. There is an immense amount of
fine and delicate work about it, which cannot be described.
The dome is so beautiful that Philip II. said
it was the work of angels rather than men. The choir
is quite a lofty enclosure, which obstructs the view
from the pavement. The archbishop’s palace, and the
cloister, on one side, seem to be a part of the church.
It contains, as usual, a great many chapels, each of
which has its own treasures of art or antiquity. In
one of them is the famous Christ of Burgos, which is
said to have been made by Nicodemus after he and
Joseph of Arimathea had buried the Saviour. As
usual, it was found in a box floating in the sea.
The hair, beard, eyelashes, and the thorns, are all
real; and a French writer says the skin of the figure
is human. The image works miracles without number,
sweats on Friday, and even bleeds at times; and is
held in the highest veneration by the people.

In another chapel is the coffer of the Cid, an old
worm–eaten chest bound with iron. When the champion
was banished by the king, as he wanted to go off
with flying colors, and was in need of a large sum of
money, he filled this chest with sand and stones, and,
without allowing them to look into it, assured a couple
of rich Jews that it was full of gold and jewels. They
took his word for it (strange as such a transaction would
be in modern times), and loaned the money he needed.
When he had captured Valencia, he paid the loan, and
exposed the cheat he had put upon them. Of course
they were willing to forgive him after he had paid the
money.

The next point of interest with the students was the
town hall, where they were permitted to look upon the
bones of the Cid and his wife, which are kept in a box,
with a wire screen over them to prevent any heathen
from stealing them. The bones are all mixed up, and
no one can tell which belong to the Cid and which to
his wife.

At noon Dr. Winstock procured an antiquated carriage
at the hotel stable, and took Sheridan and Murray
out into the country. After a ride of a couple of miles
they reached Miraflores, which is a convent founded by
John II., and finished by Isabella I. Its church contains
the royal tomb in which John II. is buried, and is
one of the finest things of the kind in the world, the
sculpture being of the most delicate character. Several
other Castilian kings are buried in this place.

The little party took the carriage again, intending to
visit the Monastery of San Pedro de Cardeña. There
was no road, only an ill–defined track across the fields;
and very rough fields they were, covered with rocks so
thick that the vehicle often had to pass over many of
them. The passengers were terribly shaken up. On
the way they occasionally met a peasant riding on or
leading a mule or donkey loaded with various commodities
carried in panniers. They were interesting as a
study.

San Pedro is nothing but a ruin. It was established
in the fifth century; and in the ninth the Moors destroyed
the edifice, and killed two hundred monks who
lived in it. It was rebuilt; and, being the favorite convent
of the Cid, he requested that he might be buried in
it. The monument is in a side chapel, and looks as
though it had been whitewashed at no very remote
period. The doctor read the inscription on the empty
tomb. A dirty peasant who joined the party as soon
as they got out the carriage followed them at every
step, almost looking into their mouths when they spoke.

When the party started to return, things began to be
very lively with them. First Sheridan rubbed his legs;
then Murray did so; and before long the doctor
joined in the recreation.

“What’s the matter?” asked the surgeon, laughing.

“I don’t know; but my legs feel as though I had
an attack of the seven–years’ itch,” replied the captain
with a vigorous attempt to reach and conquer the difficulty.

“That’s just my case,” added Murray, with an
equally violent demonstration.

“I don’t understand it,” continued the captain.

“I do,” answered the surgeon, vigorously rubbing
one of his legs.

“What is it?” asked Sheridan, suspecting that they
all had some strange disease.

“_Cosas de España_,” laughed the doctor.

“But that is Spanish; and I don’t understand the
lingo.”

“A _cosa de España_ is a ‘thing of Spain;’ fleas
are things of Spain; and that is what is the matter
with you and me. The lining of this carriage has
been repaired by covering it in part with cloth with a
long nap, which is alive with fleas.”

“The wicked flea!” exclaimed Murray.

“He goeth about in Spain, seeking whom he may
devour,” added the doctor.

When they reached the hotel, supper was ready;
but they did not want any just then, for no one feels
hungry while a myriad of fleas are picking his bones.
Garments were taken off, and brushed on the inside;
the skin was washed with cologne–water; and the party
were happy till they took in a new supply.

At about eleven at night, the ship’s company took
the train south, and at quarter past eight the next
morning were at _El Escorial_.



CHAPTER IX.

THE HOLD OF THE TRITONIA.


Raimundo was in the hold of the Tritonia.
He had made for himself a hiding–place under
the dunnage in the run, by removing a quantity of
ballast, and arranging a number of empty casks so as
to conceal his retreat from any who might search the
hold for him. The task had been ingeniously accomplished;
and those who looked for him had examined
every hole and corner above the ballast, that could
possibly hold a person of his size; and they had no
suspicion that there was room even for a cat under
the dunnage.

The young Spaniard had fully considered his situation
before he ventured into the waters of Spain. He
was fully prepared for the event that had occurred.
The plan of his hiding–place was his own; but he
knew that he could not make it, or remain in it for any
considerable time, without assistance. If he spent a
week or even three days in his den, he must have food
and drink. He did not believe the squadron would
remain many weeks in Spanish waters; and it was his
purpose to stay in the hold during this time, if he
found it necessary to do so. A confederate was therefore
indispensable to the success of the scheme.

Certain work required to be done in the hold, such
as getting up stores and keeping every thing in order,
was divided among the stewards. Those employed in
the cabin attended to the after–hold, and those in the
steerage to the fore–hold. One of the former was a
Cuban mulatto, a very bright fellow, who spoke Spanish
as well as English. Raimundo had become quite intimate
with him, because they both spoke their native
tongue, which it was pleasant to each to hear, and the
steward had become very fond of him. His name was
Hugo; and Raimundo was confident the man would be
his friend in the emergency.

During study hours, the vice–principal and the professors
were employed in the steerage. When the
quarter–watch to which the young Spaniard belonged
was off duty, instead of spending his time on deck as
his companions did in fine weather, he remained in
the cabin, which at times was entirely deserted. He
found that Hugo was willing to listen to him; and by
degrees he told him his whole story, as he had related
it to Scott, and disclosed the plan he intended to
adopt when his uncle or his agents should put in a
claim for him. Hugo was ready and anxious to take
part in the enterprise. There could be no doubt in
regard to his fidelity, for the steward would have perilled
his life in the service of the young Spaniard.

At a favorable time they visited the hold together;
and Raimundo indicated what was to be done in the
preparation of the hiding–place. Both of them worked
at the job. The ballast taken from the hold was carefully
distributed in other places under the dunnage.
Hugo had charge of the after–hold, and his being there
so much excited no suspicion.

When the ship’s company returned, after the lecture,
Raimundo waited in the cabin till he was alone with
Hugo; for all hands were on deck, observing the
strange scenes around them. He then descended to
the hold, and deposited himself in the den prepared
for him. His faithful confederate had lined it with
old garments and pieces of sail–cloth, so that the place
was not as uncomfortable as it might have been. The
“mysterious disappearance” had been duly effected.

Hugo carried food and drink to his charge in the
morning, and left a pail of water for his ablutions, if
he chose to make them. Of course the steward was
very nervous while the several searches were in progress;
but, as he spoke Spanish, he was able to mislead
the _alguacil_, even while he professed to desire that
every part of the vessel should be examined. Hugo
not only provided food and water for the self–made
prisoner, but he informed him, when he could, what
was going on; so that he knew when all hands had
gone on shore, and was duly apprised of the fact that
the Josephines and Tritonias were to proceed to Lisbon
in the Prince. But the steward dared not remain long
in the hold, while Salter was in the cabin. Raimundo
wanted to get on board of the steamer that day or
night, if it were possible; but the chances were all
against him.

Hugo assured him that it would be entirely safe
for him to leave his hiding–place, as he could easily
keep out of the way of any chance visitor in the
hold, and he would notify him if another search was
likely to be made. Availing himself of this permission,
Raimundo crawled out of his hole. It was a
relief to his limbs to stretch them; and he exercised
himself as freely as he could. While he was thus engaged,
he saw the fore–scuttle opened, and some one
come down. The fugitive stepped behind the mainmast.
He saw the figure of one of the students, as he
judged that he was from his size, moving stealthily in
the gloom of the place. In a moment more, he rushed
up the steps, and disappeared. In an instant afterwards,
Raimundo saw a flame flash up from the pile of
rubbish.

The vessel was on fire, or she soon would be; for
there was fire near her timbers. Grasping the bucket
of water Hugo had left for his ablutions, he poured
enough on the fire to extinguish it, and then retreated
to the covert of the mainmast. A second time the
incendiary–match was applied; and again the fugitive
put it out with the contents of the pail. For the third
time the incendiary pile that was to doom the beautiful
Tritonia to destruction was lighted; and this time
the wretch who applied the match evidently intended
to remain till the flames were well under way. The
fugitive was greatly disturbed; for, if he showed himself
to the incendiary, he would betray his secret, and
expose his presence. But he could not hesitate to save
the vessel at whatever consequences to himself; and,
as soon as he saw the blaze, he rushed aft, accosted
the villain, and stamped out the fire, for he had entirely
emptied the pail.

“What are you about, you villain? Do you mean to
burn the vessel?” demanded Raimundo, who did not
yet know who the incendiary was.

Bill Stout was startled, not to say overwhelmed, by
this unexpected interference with his plans. He recognized
the second master, whose mysterious disappearance
had excited so much astonishment. But he
was prompt to see, that, if Raimundo had detected him
in a crime, he had possession of the fugitive’s secret.
Somebody on shore wanted the second master, and an
officer had come on board for him. Perhaps he was
guilty of some grave misdemeanor, and for that reason
would not allow himself to be caught; for none of the
students except Scott knew why the young Spaniard
was required on shore. Bill Stout did not care: he
only saw that it was an even thing between himself and
Raimundo.

“Who are you?” asked the fugitive, when he had
waited a moment for an answer to his first question.

“I advise you not to speak too loud, Mr. Raimundo,
unless you wish to have the chief steward know you are
here,” replied Bill, when he had recovered his self–possession,
and taken a hurried view of the situation.

“Stout!” exclaimed Raimundo, identifying the familiar
voice.

But he spoke in a low tone, for he was not disposed
to summon Mr. Salter to the hold, though he had felt
that he sacrificed himself and his plan when he showed
himself to the incendiary.

“That’s my name,” replied the young villain.

“I understand what you were scheming at in your
watch on deck. Lingall, Pardee, and Gibbs are your
associates in this rascality,” added Raimundo.

Stout, who was not before aware that he had been
watched by the second master or by any other officer,
was rather taken aback by this announcement; but he
promptly denied that the students named were concerned
in the affair.

“Lingall is with you, I know. I see how you have
managed the affair. He is your companion in the brig,
which was built over the midship scuttle,” continued
Raimundo. “But why do you desire to burn the vessel?”

“Because I want to get out of her,” replied Bill sullenly.
“But I can’t stop here to talk.”

“Do you really mean to burn the Tritonia?”

“That’s what I did mean; but, since you have found
me out, I shall not be likely to do it now.”

“Whatever you do, don’t do that. You are in the
waters of Spain now, and I don’t know but you would
have to be tried and punished for it in this country.”

Bill Stout had no idea of being tried and punished
for the crime in any country; and he had not even considered
it a crime when he thought of the matter. He
did not expect to be found out when he planned the
job: villains never expect to be. But he was alarmed
now; and the deed he had attempted seemed to be a
hundred times more wicked and dangerous than at any
time before.

“I can’t stop here: Salter will miss me if I do,”
added Bill, moving up the ladder.

“Wait a minute,” interposed Raimundo, who was
willing to save himself from exposure if he could.

“I’ll come down again, after a while,” answered Bill,
as he opened the scuttle, and got into the brig.

“Why did you stay down so long?” demanded Bark
Lingall nervously.

“It’s all up now, and we can’t do any thing,” replied
Bill sullenly, as he seated himself on his stool,
and picked up one of his books.

“What’s the matter?”

“We are found out.”

“Found out!” exclaimed Bark; and his heart rose
into his throat at the announcement. “How can that
be?”

“I was seen doing it.”

“Who saw you?”

“You couldn’t guess in a month,” added Bill, who
fixed his gaze on his book while he was talking.

“Didn’t I hear you speaking to some one in the
hold, Bill?” asked Bark, as he picked up a book, in
order to follow the studious example of his companion.

“I was speaking to some one,” replied Bill.

“Who was it?”

“Raimundo; and he knew that you were concerned
in the job without my mentioning your name;” and
Bill explained what had passed between himself and
the second master.

“Raimundo!” exclaimed Bark, in a musing manner.
“Then he mysteriously disappeared into the hold.”

“He did; and he has us where the hair is short,”
added Bill.

“And perhaps we have him where the hair is long
enough to get hold of. All we have to do is to tell
Salter, when he comes to look at us, that Raimundo is
in the hold.”

“We won’t do it; and then Raimundo won’t say we
set the vessel on fire,” protested Bill.

“Wait a bit, Bill. He is a spooney, a chaplain’s
lamb. He may keep still till he gets out of his own
scrape, whatever it may be, and then blow on us when
he is safe himself.”

“I don’t know: I shall see him again after Salter
has paid us another visit.”

The chief steward came into the steerage a few
minutes later; and seeing both of the prisoners engaged
in study, as he supposed, he probably believed the hour
of reformation had come. As soon as he had gone,
Bill opened the scuttle again, and went down into the
hold; but he was unwilling to leave the brig for more
than a few moments at a time, lest some accident should
betray his absence to the chief steward. He arranged
a plan by which he could talk with Raimundo without
danger from above. Returning to the brig, he lay down
on the floor, with a book in his hand, so that his head
was close to the scuttle. Bark was seated on the floor,
also with a book in his hand, in such a position as to
conceal the trap–door, which was raised a few inches,
from the gaze of Mr. Salter, if he should happen
suddenly to enter the steerage. Raimundo was to stand
on the steps of the ladder, with his head on a level
with the cabin floor, where he could hear Bill, and be
heard by him.

“I think we can’t afford to quarrel,” said Bill magnanimously.
“We are all in the same boat now. I
suppose you are wanted on shore for some dido you cut
up before you left your home.”

“I did nothing wrong before I left my home,” replied
Raimundo; and it galled him terribly to be
obliged to make terms with the rascals in the brig.
“My trouble is simply a family affair; and, if captured,
I shall be subjected to no penalty whatever.”

“Is that all?” asked Bill, sorry it was no worse.

“That’s all; but for reasons I don’t care to explain,
I do not wish to be taken back to my uncle in Barcelona.
But I will give myself up before I will let you
burn the Tritonia,” replied Raimundo, with no little
indignation in his tones.

“Of course, as things stand now, we shall not burn
the vessel,” added Bill: “we will make a fair trade
with you.”

“I shall make no trades of any kind; but I leave
you free to do what you think best, and I shall remain
so myself,” said Raimundo, who was too high–toned to
bargain with fellows wicked enough to burn the beautiful
Tritonia. “It is enough that I wish to get away
from this city.”

“If you clear out, you won’t blow on us,” added
Bill, willing to put the best construction on the statement
of the second master.

“I promise nothing; but this I say: if you burn the
Tritonia, whether I am on board or a thousand miles
away, I will inform the principal who set the fire.”

“Of course we should not do any thing of that sort
now,” added Bark, whose head was near enough to the
scuttle to enable him to hear all that was said.

“I shall be obliged to keep out of the way of all on
board, for the present at least,” said Raimundo.

“We are satisfied with that,” replied Bill, who
seemed to be in haste to reach some other branch of
the subject.

“Very well: then there is nothing more to be said,”
answered Raimundo, who was quite willing to close
the interview at this point.

The conspirators were not so willing; for the chance
of escape held out to them by the burning of the
vessel was gone, and they were very much dissatisfied
with the situation. It would be madness to repeat the
attempt to destroy the vessel; and the future looked
very unpromising. All hands were going off on a very
desirable cruise in the steamer. Ben Pardee and Lon
Gibbs had apparently deserted them when tempted by
the voyage to Lisbon. They had a dismal prospect of
staying in the brig, under the care of Marline and
Rimmer, for the next three weeks.

The second master had plenty of time to think over
his arrangements for the next week or two; and he was
not much better satisfied with the immediate prospect
for the future, than were the occupants of the brig.
His accommodations were far less comfortable than
theirs; and the experience of a single night had caused
him to fear that he might take cold and be sick.
Besides, he had not calculated that the Tritonia was to
lie at this port for two or three weeks, thus increasing
the danger and discomfort of his situation. If he had
to abandon his hiding–place, he preferred to take his
chances at any other port rather than Barcelona. It
was more than probable that Marline and Rimmer would
overhaul the hold, and re–stow the boxes and barrels
while the vessel was at anchor; and possibly the principal
had ordered some repairs at this favorable time.

His chance of getting on board of the Prince before
she sailed was too small to afford him any hope. The
change the principal had made in the programme interfered
sadly with his calculations. Mr. Lowington had
made this alteration in order to enable the students to
visit the northern and central parts of the peninsula
before the weather became too cold to permit them to
do so with any degree of comfort. The fugitive was
willing, therefore, to change his plans if it was possible.

“Hold on a minute,” interposed Bill Stout, when
Raimundo was about to descend the ladder. “What
are you going to do with yourself while the vessel lies
here for the next three weeks?”

“I shall have to keep out of sight in the hold,”
replied the second master.

“But you can’t do that. You will starve to death.”

“I have looked out for that.”

Though Bill Stout asked some questions on this
point, Raimundo declined to say in what manner he
had provided for his rations.

“Do you know who are in charge on board now?”
asked Bill.

“Only Mr. Salter and one of the stewards,” replied
the fugitive.

“Why don’t you use your chance while Marline and
Rimmer are ashore, and leave the vessel? You can
get away without being seen.”

“I can’t get out of the vessel without going through
the cabin where Mr. Salter is,” answered Raimundo;
but the suggestion gave him a lively hope.

“Yes, you can: you can get out by the fore–scuttle, go
over the bow, and roost on the bobstay till a shore
boat comes along,” added Bill. “Only you musn’t let
the steward see you. Salter is in the cabin, and he
won’t know any thing about it.”

Raimundo was grateful for the suggestion, though
he was not willing to acknowledge it, considering the
source from which it came. Hugo would help him,
instead of being a hinderance. The steward would call
a boat, and have it all ready for him when he got out
of the vessel. He could even keep Mr. Salter in the
cabin, while he made his escape, by engaging his attention
in some matter of business.

“I will see what I can do,” said the fugitive as he
left the ladder.

He went aft to the cabin ladder, and raised the
scuttle an inch. Hugo was setting the table for Mr.
Salter’s lunch. He saw the trap–door raised, and he
immediately went below for a jar of pickles. In five
minutes Raimundo had recited his plan to him. In
five minutes more Hugo had a boat at the bow of
the Tritonia, waiting for its passenger. At half–past
twelve, Hugo called Mr. Salter to his lunch; and,
when this gentleman took his seat at the table, Hugo
raised the trap, and slammed it down as though it had
not been in place before. Raimundo understood the
signal.

The fugitive went forward, and ascended to the
deck by the fore–scuttle. He was making his way over
the bow when he found that he was followed by Bill
Stout and Bark Lingall.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Raimundo,
astonished and annoyed at the action of the incendiaries.

“We are going with you,” replied Bill Stout. “Over
with you! if you say a word, we will call Salter.”

Raimundo dropped into the boat that was waiting
for him, and the villains from the brig followed him.



CHAPTER X.

THE ESCURIAL AND PHILIP II.


Before the train stopped, the students obtained
a fair view of the Escurial, which is a vast pile
of buildings, located in the most desolate place to be
found even in Spain. The village is hardly less solemn
and gloomy than the tremendous structure that towers
above. The students breakfasted at the two _fondas_ in
the place; and then Mr. Mapps, as usual, had something
to say to them:—

“The Escurial, or _El Escorial_ as it is called in
Spanish, is a monastery, palace, and church. The
name is derived from _scoriæ_, the refuse of iron–lore
after it is smelted; and there were iron–mines in this
vicinity. The full name of the building is ‘_El Real
Sitio de San Lorenzo el Real del Escorial_,’ or, literally,
‘The Royal Seat of St. Lawrence, the Royal, of the
Escurial.’ It was built by Philip II. in commemoration
of the battle of St. Quentin, in 1557, won by the arms
of Philip, though he was not present at the battle. He
had made a vow, that, if the saint gave him the victory,
he would build the most magnificent monastery in the
world in his honor. St. Lawrence was kind enough to
accommodate him with the victory; and this remarkable
pile of buildings was the result. Philip redeemed his
vow, and even did more than this; for, in recognition
of the fact that the saint was martyred on a gridiron,
he built this monastery in the form of that useful cooking
implement. As you see, the structure is in the
form of a square; and, within it, seventeen ranges of
buildings cross each other at right angles. The towers
at each corner are two hundred feet high; and the
grand dome in the centre is three hundred and twenty
feet high.

“The total length of the building is seven hundred
and forty feet, by five hundred and eighty feet wide.
It was begun in 1563, when Philip laid the corner–stone
with his own hands; and was completed twenty–one
years later. It cost, in money of our time, fifteen
millions of dollars. It has four thousand windows;
though you may see that most of them are rather small.
The church, which is properly the chapel of the monastery,
is three hundred and seventy–five feet long, and
contains forty chapels. The high altar is ninety feet
high, and fifty feet wide, and is composed of jasper.
Directly under it is the royal tomb, in which are laid
the remains of all the sovereigns of Spain from Charles
V. to the present time. The Spaniards regard the
Escurial as the eighth wonder of the world. It is
grand, solemn, and gloomy, like Philip who built it.
In the mountain, a mile and a half from the Escurial,
is a seat built of granite, which Philip used to occupy
while watching the progress of the work.”

The students separated, dividing into parties to suit
themselves. All the available guides were engaged for
them; and in a few minutes the interior of the church
presented a scene that would have astonished the
gloomy Philip if he could have stepped out of his shelf
below to look at it, for a hundred young Americans—from
the land that Columbus gave to Castile and Leon—was
an unusual sight within its cold and deserted
walls.

“I suppose you have read the lives of Charles V.
and Philip II.,” said Dr. Winstock, as he entered the
great building with his young friends.

Both of them had read Robertson and Prescott and
Irving; and it was because they were generally well
read up that the doctor liked to be with them.

“It isn’t of much use for any one who has not read
the life of Philip II. to come here: at least, he would
be in the dark all the time,” added the doctor.

“I have seen it stated that Charles V. and his
mother, Crazy Jane, both wanted a convent built which
should contain a burial–place for the royal family,” said
Sheridan.

“That is true. All of them were very pious, and
inclined to dwell in convents. Charles V. showed his
taste at his abdication by retiring to Yuste,” replied the
surgeon.

“The architecture of the building is very plain.”

“Yes,—simple, massive, and grand.”

“Like Philip, as Professor Mapps said.”

“It took him two years to find a suitable spot for the
building,” said the doctor.

“I don’t think he could have found a worse one,”
laughed Murray.

“But he found just the one he wanted; and he did
not select it to suit you and me. Look off at those
mountains on the north,—the Guadarramas. They
tower above Philip’s mausoleum, but they do not belittle
it. The region is rough but grand: it is desolate;
but that makes it more solemn and impressive. It is
a monastery and a tomb that he built, not a pleasure–house.”

“But he made a royal residence of it,” suggested
Murray.

“For the same reason that his father chose to end
his days in a monastery. Philip would be a wild
fanatic in our day; but he is to be judged by his own
time. He was really a king and a monk, as much one
as the other. When we go into the room where he
died, and where he spent the last days of his life, and
recall some of his history there, we shall understand
him better. I don’t admire his character, but I am disposed
to do justice to him.”

The party entered the church, called in Spanish
_templo_: it is three hundred and twenty feet long, and it
is the same to the top of the cupola.

“The interior is so well proportioned that you do not
get an adequate idea of the size of it,” said the doctor.
“Consider that you could put almost any church in our
own country into this one, and have plenty of room for
its spire under that dome. It is severely plain; but I
think it is grand and impressive. The high altar, which
I believe the professor did not make as large as it really
is, is very rich in marbles and precious stones, and cost
about two hundred thousand dollars.”

“That’s enough to build twenty comfortable country
churches at home,” added Murray. “And this whole
building cost money enough to build fifteen thousand
handsome churches in any country. Of course there
are plenty of beggars in Spain.”

“That is the republican view of the matter,” replied
Dr. Winstock. “But the builder of this mighty fabric
believed he was serving God acceptably in rearing it;
and we must judge him by his motive, and consider the
age in which he lived. Observe, as Mr Ford says in
his hand–book, that the pantheon, or crypt where the
kings are buried, is just under the steps of the high
altar: it was so planned by Philip, that the host, when
it was elevated, might be above the royal dead. Now
we will go into the _relicario_.”

“I think I have seen about relics enough to last me
the rest of my lifetime,” said Sheridan.

“You need not see them if you do not wish to do
so,” laughed the surgeon. “This is a tolerably free
country just now, and you can do as you please.”

But the captain followed his party.

“The French carried away vast quantities of the
treasures of the church when they were engaged in
conquering the country. But they left the bones of the
saints, which the pious regard as the real treasures.
Among other things stolen was a statue presented by
the people of Messina to Philip III., weighing two hundred
pounds, of solid silver, and holding in its hand a
gold vessel weighing twenty–six pounds; besides forty–seven
of the richest vases, and a heavy crown set with
rubies and other precious stones,” continued Dr. Winstock,
consulting a guide–book he carried in his hand.
“This book says there are 7,421 relics here now, among
which are ten whole bodies, 144 heads, 306 whole legs
and arms; here is one of the real bars of the gridiron
on which St. Lawrence was martyred, with portions of
the broiled flesh upon it; and there is one of his feet,
with a piece of coal sticking between the toes.”

“But where did they get that bar of the gridiron?”
asked Murray earnestly. “St. Lawrence was broiled
in the third century.”

“I don’t know,” replied the doctor. “You must not
ask me any questions of that kind, for I cannot answer
them.”

The party returned to the church again; and the surgeon
called the attention of his companions to the oratorios,
one on each side of the altar, which are small
rooms for the use of the royal persons when they attend
the mass.

“The one on the left is the one used by Philip II.,”
added the doctor. “You see the latticed window
through which he looked at the priest. Next to it is
his cabinet, where he worked and where he died. We
shall visit them from the palace.”

After looking at the choir, and examining the bishop’s
throne, the party with a dozen others visited the
pantheon, or royal tomb. The descent is by a flight of
marble steps, and the walls are also of the same material.
At the second landing are two doors, that on the
left leading to the “_pantheon de los infantes_,” which is
the tomb of those queens who were not mothers of
sovereigns of Spain, and of princes who did not sit on
the throne. There are sixty bodies here, including
Don Carlos, the son of Philip, Don John of Austria,
who asked to be buried here as the proper reward for
his services, and other persons whose names are known
to history.

After looking at these interesting relics of mortality,
the tourists descended to the pantheon, which is a
heathenish name to apply to a Christian burial–place
erected by one so pious as Philip II. It is octagonal
in form, forty–six feet in diameter and thirty–eight feet
high. It is built entirely of marble and jasper. It
contains an altar of the same stone, where mass is
sometimes celebrated. These mortuary chapels were
not built by Philip II., who made only plain vaults;
but by Philip III. and Philip IV., who did not inherit
the taste for simplicity of their predecessor on the
throne. Around the tomb are twenty–six niches, all of
them made after the same pattern, each containing a
sarcophagus, in most of which is the body of a king or
queen. On the right of the altar are the kings, and on
the left the queens. All of them are labelled with the
name of the occupant, as “Carlos V.,” “Filipe II.,”
“Fernando VII.,” &c.

“Can it be possible that we see the coffins of
Charles V. and Philip II.?” said Sheridan, who was
very much impressed by the sight before him.

“There is no doubt of it,” replied the doctor.

“I can hardly believe that the body of Philip II. is
in that case,” added the captain. “I see no reason to
doubt the fact; but it seems so very strange that I
should be looking at the coffin of that cold and cruel
king who lived before our country was settled, and of
whom I have read so much.”

“I think before you leave Spain you will see something
that will impress you even more than this.”

“What is it?”

“I will not mention it yet; for it is better not to
anticipate these things. All the kings of Spain from
Charles V. are buried here, except Philip V. and Ferdinand
VI.”

“What an odd way they have here of spelling
Charles and Philip!” said Murray. “These names
don’t look quite natural to me.”

“Carlos Quinto is the Spanish for Charles Fifth;
and Ferdinand Seventh is Fernando Septimo, as you
see on the urn. But our way of writing these things is
as odd to the Spaniards as theirs is to us. The late
queen and her father, when they came to the Escurial,
used to hear mass at midnight in this tomb.”

“That was cheerful,” added Sheridan.

“They had a fancy for that sort of thing. Maria
Louisa, Philip’s wife, scratched her name on one of
these marble cases with her scissors.”

The party in the pantheon returned to the church to
make room for another company to visit it. Dr. Winstock
and his friends ascended the grand staircase, and
from the top of the building obtained a fine view of
the surrounding country, which at this season was as
desolate and forbidding as possible. After this they
took a survey of the monastery, most of which has
the aspect of a barrack. They looked with interest at
some of the portraits among the pictures, especially at
those of Philip and Charles V. In the library they
glanced at the old manuscripts, and at the catalogue
in which some of Philip’s handwriting was pointed out
to them.

They next went to the palace, which is certainly a
mean abode for a king, though it was improved and
adorned by some of the builder’s successors. Philip
asked only a cell in the house he had erected and consecrated
to God; and so he made the palace very simple
and plain. Some of the long and narrow rooms
are adorned with tapestries on the walls; but there is
nothing in the palace to detain the visitor beyond a
few minutes, except the apartments of Philip II. They
are two small rooms, hardly more than six feet wide.
One of them is Philip’s cabinet, where he worked on
affairs of state; and the other is the oratory, where he
knelt at the little latticed window which commanded a
view of the priests at the high altar of the church.
The old table at which he wrote, the chair in which he
sat, and the footstool on which he placed his gouty leg,
are still there. The doctor, who had been here before,
pointed them out to the students.

“It almost seems as though he had just left the
place,” said Sheridan. “I don’t see how a great king
could be content to spend his time in such a gloomy
den as this.”

“It was his own fancy, and he made his own nest
to suit himself,” replied the doctor. “He was writing
at that table when the loss of the invincible armada
was announced to him. It is said he did not move a
muscle, though he had wasted eighteen years of his
life and a hundred million ducats upon the fleet and
the scheme. He was kneeling at the window when
Don John of Austria came in great haste to tell him
of the victory of Lepanto; but he was not allowed to
see the king till the latter had finished his devotions.”

“He was a cool old fellow,” added Murray.

“When he was near the end, he caused himself to
be carried in a litter all over the wonderful building
he had erected, that he might take a last look at the
work of his hands,” continued the doctor. “He was
finally brought to this place, where he received extreme
unction; and, having taken leave of his family, he died,
grasping the crucifix which his father had held in his
last moments.”

The party passed out of the buildings, and gave
some time to the gardens and grounds of the Escurial.
There are some trees, a few of them the spindling and
ghostly–looking Lombardy poplars; but, beyond the
immediate vicinity of the “eighth wonder,” the country
is desolate and wild, without a tree to vary the monotony
of the scene. The doctor led the way down the
hill to the _Casita del Principe_, which is a sort of miniature
palace, built for Charles IV. when he was a boy.
It is a pretty toy, containing thirty–three rooms, all of
them of reduced size, and with furniture on the same
scale. It contains some fine pictures and other works
of art.

The tourists dined, and devoted the rest of the day
to wandering about in the vicinity of the village.
Some of them walked up to the _Silla del Rey_, or king’s
chair, where Philip overlooked the work on the Escurial.
At five o’clock the ship’s company took the slow
train, and arrived at Madrid at half–past seven, using
up two hours and a half in going thirty–two miles.

“I am sorry it is too dark for you to see the country,”
said the doctor, after the train started.

“Why, sir, is it very fine?” asked Sheridan.

“On the contrary, it is, I think, the most desolate
region on the face of the globe; with hardly a village,
not a tree, nothing but rocks to be seen. It reminds
me of some parts of Maine and New Hampshire, where
they have to sharpen the sheep’s noses to enable them
to feed among the rocks. The people are miserable
and half savage; and it is said that many of them
are clothed in sheepskins, and live in burrows in the
ground, for the want of houses; but I never saw any
thing of this kind, though I know that some of the
gypsys in the South dwell in caves in the sides of the
hills. Agriculture is at the lowest ebb, though Spain
produces vast quantities of the most excellent qualities
of grain. Like a portion of our own country, the numerous
valleys are very fertile, though in the summer
the streams of this part of Spain are all dried up. The
gypsys camp in the bed of the Manzanares, at Madrid.
Alexandre Dumas and his son went to a bull–fight at
the capital. The son was faint, as you may be, and
a glass of water was brought to him. After taking a
swallow, he handed the rest to the waiter, saying,
‘Portez cela au Manzanares: cela lui fera plaisir.’
(Carry that to the Manzanares: it will give it pleasure).”

“Good for Dumas, _fils_!” exclaimed Murray.

“There is a prejudice against trees in Spain. The
peasants will not plant them, or suffer them to grow,
except those that bear fruit; because they afford habitations
for the birds which eat up their grain. Timber
and wood for fuel are therefore very scarce and very
dear in this part of the country. But this region was
not always so barren and desolate as it is now. In
the wars with the Moors, both armies began by cutting
down the trees and burning the villages. More of
this desolation, however, was caused by a very remarkable
privilege, called the _mesta_, granted to certain of
the nobility. It gave them the right of pasturage over
vast territories, including the Castiles, Estremadura,
and La Mancha. It came to be a legal right, and
permitted immense flocks of sheep to roam across the
country twice a year, in the spring and autumn. In
the time of Philip II., the wandering flocks of sheep
were estimated at from seven to eight millions. They
devoured every thing before them in the shape of grass
and shrubs. This privilege was not abolished till
1825.”

“I should think Philip and the rest of the kings who
lived at the Escurial would have had a nice time in
going to and from the capital,” said Sheridan. “He
did not have a palace–car on the railroad in those
days.”

“After Philip’s day they did not live there a great
deal of the time, not so much because it was inconvenient
as because it was a gloomy and cheerless place.
They used to make it a rule to spend six weeks of the
year there; though the last of the sovereigns did not
live there at all, I believe. But they had good roads
and good carriages for their time. The Spaniards do
not make many roads; but what they do make are first–class.
I am sorry we do not go to Segovia, though
there is not much there except the cathedral and the
Roman aqueduct, which is a fine specimen. But you
have seen plenty of these things. Six miles from Segovia
is La Granja, or the Grange, which is sometimes
called the palace of San Ildefonso. It is a _real sitio_, or
royal residence, built by Philip V. It is a summer
retreat, in the midst of pine forests four thousand feet
above the sea–level. We went through Valladolid in
the night. Columbus died there, you remember; and
Philip II. was born there; but there is nothing of great
interest to be seen in the city.”

When the train arrived at Madrid, a lot of small
omnibuses, holding about eight persons each, were
waiting for the company; and they were driven to the
_Puerta del Sol_, where the principal hotels are located.
Half of the party went to the _Grand Hotel de Paris_,
and the other half to the _Hotel de los Principes_. Dr.
Winstock and his _protégés_ were quartered at the
former.

On shore no distinction was made between officers
and seamen, and no better rooms were given to the
former than to the latter. As two students occupied
one wide bed, they were allowed to pair off for this
purpose. It so happened that the captain and the first
lieutenant had one of the worst rooms in the house.
After they had gone up two pairs of stairs, a sign on
the wall informed them that they had reached the first
story; and four more brought them to the seven–by–nine
chamber, with a brick floor, which they were to
occupy. The furniture was very meagre.

In Spain hotels charge by the day, the price being
regulated by the size and location of the room. Such
as that we have just described was thirty–five _reales_. A
good sized inside room, two flights nearer the earth,
was fifty _reales_, with an increase of five _reales_ for an
outside room looking into the street. The table was
the same for all the guests. The price per day varies
from thirty to sixty _reales_ in Spain, forty being the
most common rate at the best hotels out of Madrid.
From two to four _reales_ a day is charged for attendance,
and one or two for candles. Two dollars a day
is therefore about the average rate. Only two meals
a day are served for this price,—a breakfast at ten or
eleven, and dinner at six.

It is the fashion in Spain, for an individual or company
to conduct several hotels in different cities. The
Fallola brothers run the grand Hotel de Paris in
Madrid, the ones with the same name in Seville and in
Cadiz, and the Hotel Suiza in Cordova; and they are
the highest–priced hotels on the peninsula, and doubtless
the best. The company that manages the Hotel
de Los Principes in Madrid also have the Rizzi in
Cordova, the Londres in Seville, the Cadiz in Cadiz,
and the Siete Suelos in Granada, in which the prices
are more moderate. The Hotel Washington Irving at
Granada, and the Alameda in Malaga, are under the
same management, and charge forty–four and forty
_reales_ a day respectively, besides service and lights.
Though Spain is said to be an expensive country to
live in, these prices in 1870 were only about half those
charged in the United States.

Railroad fares are about two cents and a half a mile,
second class; and about a third higher, first class. A
one–horse carriage for two costs forty cents an hour in
Madrid; and for four persons, two horses, fifty cents.
A very handsome carriage, with driver and footman in
livery, may be had for five dollars a day.

After supper the students walked about the _Puerta
del Sol_, and took their first view of the capital of
Spain.



CHAPTER XI.

THE CRUISE IN THE FELUCCA.


Raimundo was very much disgusted when he
found that Bill Stout and Bark Lingall were to
be the companions of his flight. Thus far he had felt
that his conduct was justifiable. His uncle Manuel
had taught him to believe that his guardian intended to
“put him out of the way.” Don Alejandro had not
actually attempted to do any thing of this kind, so far
as was known; and no case could be made out against
him. Don Manuel did not mean that he should have
an opportunity to attempt any thing of the kind. Certainly
it was safer to keep out of his way, than to tempt
him to do a deed which his own brother believed he
was capable of doing. Raimundo thought Don Manuel
was right: indeed, he could remember enough of
Don Alejandro’s treatment of him before he left Barcelona,
to convince him of his guardian’s intentions.

But when he found himself in the boat, escaping
from the Tritonia with two of the worst “scalliwags”
of the crew, the case seemed to present a different
aspect to him. He realized that he was in bad company;
and he felt contaminated by their presence, Yet
he did not see how he could help himself. The only
way he could get out of the scrape was to surrender
to the chief steward, and in due time be handed over
to the agent of his guardian. Whether he was correct
or not in his estimate of his uncle’s character, he was
sincere in his belief that Don Alejandro intended to do
him harm, even to the sacrificing of his life. Independently
of his personal fears, he did not think it
would be right to give himself up to one who might be
tempted to do an evil deed. He concluded to make
the best of the situation, and as soon as possible to get
rid of his disagreeable companions.

“Where shall we go, Raimundo?” asked Bill Stout,
as confidentially as though he had been a part of the
enterprise from the beginning.

“We must go on shore, of course,” replied the
young Spaniard, who was not yet sufficiently reconciled
to the situation to be very cordial.

More than this, he had not yet considered what his
course should be when he had left the vessel; but it
occurred to him, as Bill asked the question, that the
_alguacil_, whose action had been fully reported to him
by Hugo, might be watching the vessel from the shore.
Raimundo looked about him to get a better idea of the
situation. The wind was from the north–west, which
swung the Prince so that she lay between the Tritonia
and the landing–place, and hid her hull from the view
of any one on the city side.

“I think we had better not land at any of the usual
places,” suggested Bark. “Marline, Rimmer, and all
the rest of the forward officers, are in charge of the
boats at the principal landing.”

“I had no idea of going to the city. It would not
be safe for me to show my face there,” answered Raimundo;
and he directed the boatman to pull to the
Barceloneta side of the port, and in such a direction as
to keep in the shadow of the vessels of the fleet.

The man offered to land them at a more convenient
place; but Raimundo insisted upon going to the point
indicated. Very likely the boatman suspected that his
passengers were not leaving the vessel to which they
belonged in a perfectly regular manner; but probably
this would not make any difference to him, as long as
he was well paid for his services. Presently the boat
grounded on some rocks at the foot of the sea–wall,
which rose high above them. As usual the boatman
was anxious to obtain another job; and he offered to
take them to any point they wished to go to.

“I will take you back to your ship when you are
ready to go,” continued the man with a smile, and a
twinkle of the eye, which was enough to show that he
did not believe they intended to return.

Raimundo replied that they had no further use for
the boat that day.

“I have a big boat like that,” persisted the man,
pointing to a felucca which was sailing down the bay.

The craft indicated was about thirty feet long, and
carried a large lateen sail.

“Where is she?” asked Raimundo, with interest.

The man pointed up the harbor, and said he could
have her ready in a few minutes.

“Do you go out to sea in her?”

“Oh, yes! go to Majorca in her,” replied the boatman,
quite excited at the prospect of a large job.

“Can you take us to Tarragona in her?” continued
the young Spaniard, to whom the felucca suggested
the best means of getting away from Barcelona.

“Certainly I can: there is no trouble about it.”

“How much shall you charge to take us there?”

“It is fifteen leagues to Tarragona,” replied the
boatman, who proceeded to magnify the difficulties of
the enterprise as soon as the price was demanded.

“Very well: we can go by the railroad,” added Raimundo,
who fully comprehended the object of the man.

“Your officers will see you if you go into the city,”
said the boatman, with a cunning smile.

There was no longer any doubt that the fellow fully
comprehended the situation, but the fugitive saw that
he would not betray them; for, if he did, he would lose
the job, which he evidently intended should be a profitable
one.

“Name your price,” he added; and he was willing
to pay liberally for the service he desired.

“Five hundred _reales_,” answered the man.

“Do you think we have so much money?” laughed
the fugitive. “We can’t make a bargain with you.”

“What will you give?” asked the boatman.

“Two hundred _reales_.”

After considerable haggling, the bargain was struck
at three hundred _reales_, or fifteen dollars; and this
was less than the fugitive had expected to pay. The
rest of the arrangements were readily made. Filipe,
for this was the name he gave, was afraid his passengers
would be captured while he went for his felucca;
and, keeping in the shadow of the sea–wall, he pulled
them around the point on which the old light–house
stands, and landed them on some rocks under the wall.
In this position they could not be seen from the vessels
of the fleet, or from the landing–place on the other
side, while the high wall concealed them from any
person on the shore who did not take the trouble to
look over at them.

“We shall want something to eat,” said Raimundo,
as the boatman was about to leave them. “Take this,
and buy as much bread and cold meat as you can with
it.”

Raimundo handed him three dollars in Spanish silver,
which Hugo had obtained for him. The large sum of
money he had was in Spanish gold, obtained in Genoa.
He had a few dollars in silver left for small expenses.

“What are we here for?” asked Bill Stout, who, of
course, had not understood a word of the conversation
of his companion and the boatman.

Both he and Bark had asked half a dozen times
what they were talking about; but Raimundo had not
answered them.

“What has been going on between you and that
fellow all this time?” asked Bill, in a tone so imperative
that the young officer did not like it at all.

“I have made a bargain with him to take us to
Tarragona,” replied Raimundo coldly.

“And did not say a word to Bark and me about it!”
exclaimed Bill.

“If you don’t like it you need not go. I did not
invite you to come with me.”

“Did not invite me!” sneered Bill. “I know you
didn’t; but we are in the party, and want you to understand
that we are no longer under your orders. You
needn’t take it upon yourself to make arrangements for
me.”

“I made the arrangement for myself, and I don’t
ask you to go with me,” answered Raimundo with
dignity.

“Come, come! Bill, dry up!” interposed Bark. “Do
you want to make a row now before we are fairly out
of the vessel?”

“I got out of the vessel to get clear of those snobs
of officers, and I am not going to have one of them
lording it over me here.”

“Nonsense! He hasn’t done any thing that you can
find fault with,” added Bark.

“He has made a trade with that boatman to take us
somewhere without saying a word to us about it,”
blustered Bill. “I want to put a check on that sort of
thing in the beginning.”

“He has done just the right thing. If we had been
alone we could not have managed the matter at all.”

“I could have managed it well enough myself.”

“You can’t speak a word of Spanish, nor I either.”

“I don’t even know where that place is—Dragona—or
whatever it is,” growled Bill.

“I am not to blame for your ignorance,” said Raimundo.
“You heard every thing that was said; and, if
you don’t like it, I am willing to get along without
you.”

“Come, Bill; we must not get up a row. Raimundo
has done the right thing, and for one I am very much
obliged to him,” continued Bark.

“He might have told us what he was about,” added
Bill, somewhat appeased by the words of his fellow–conspirator.

“We had no time to spare; and he could not stop to
tell the whole story twice over.”

“Where is the place we are going to?” demanded
Bill in the same sulky tone.

“Tarragona, a seaport town, south of here. How
far is it, Mr. Raimundo?”

“About fifty miles.”

“Will you tell us now, if you please, what arrangements
you made with the boatman?” continued Bark,
doing his best to smooth the ruffled feelings of the
young Spaniard.

“Certainly I will; but I want to say in the first
place that I had rather return to the Tritonia at once
than be bullied by Stout or by anybody else. I don’t
put on any airs, and I mean to treat everybody like a
gentleman. I am a Spaniard, and I will not be insulted
by any one,” said Raimundo, with as much dignity as
an hidalgo in Castile.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” said Bill mildly.

“Let it pass; but, if it is repeated, we part company
at once, whatever the consequences,” added Raimundo,
who then proceeded to explain what had passed
between Filipe and himself.

The plan was entirely satisfactory to Bark; and so
it was to Bill, though he had not the grace to say so.
The villain had an itching to be the leader of whatever
was going on himself; and he was very much afraid
that the late second master of the Tritonia would
usurp this office if he did not make himself felt in the
beginning. He was rather cowed by the lofty stand
Raimundo had taken; and he had come to the conclusion
that he had better wait till the expedition was a
little farther along before he attempted to assert himself
again.

“Have you any money?” asked Raimundo, when he
had finished his explanation.

“Yes. Both of us have money; and we will pay our
share of the cost of the boat,” replied Bark, who was
ten times more of a man than his companion in mischief.

“Is it Spanish money?”

“No, not any of it. I have seven English sovereigns
in gold, and some silver. Bill has twelve sovereigns.
I can draw over eighty pounds on my letter of credit;
and Bill can get fifty on his.”

“I only wanted to know what ready money you had,”
added Raimundo. “You must not say a word about
money when we get into the felucca.”

“Why not?” asked Bill, in his surly way, as though
he was disposed to make another issue on this point.

“I don’t know the boatman; and it is very likely he
may have another man with him. There he comes,
and there is another man with him,” replied Raimundo,
as the felucca appeared off the light–house. “If you
should show them any large sum of money, or let them
know you had it, they might be tempted to throw us
overboard for the sake of getting it. Of course, I
don’t know that they would do any thing of the kind;
but it is best to be on the safe side.”

“Some of these Spaniards would cut a man’s throat
for half a dollar,” added Bill.

“So would some Americans; and they do it in New
York sometimes,” replied Raimundo warmly. “I repeat
it: don’t say a word about money.”

“The men in the boat cannot understand us if we
do,” suggested Bark.

“They may speak English, for aught I know.”

“The one you talked with could not.”

“I don’t know about that. I did not try him in
English. We must all pretend that we have very little
money, whether we do it in English or in Spanish.
When Filipe—that’s his name—asked me five hundred
_reales_ for taking us to Tarragona, I said that I
had not so much money.”

“And that was a lie; wasn’t it?” sneered Bill.

“If it was, it is on my conscience, and not yours;
and it may be a lie that will save your life and mine,”
answered Raimundo sharply.

“I don’t object to the lie; but I thought you, one of
the parson’s lambs, did object to such things,” chuckled
Bill.

“I hate a lie: I think falsehood is mean and ungentlemanly;
but I believe there is a wide difference
between a lie told to a sick man, or to prevent a boatman
from being tempted to cut your throat, and a lie
told to save you from the consequences of your own
misconduct.”

“Well, you needn’t preach: we are not chaplain’s
lambs,” growled Bill.

“Neither am I,” added Raimundo. “I am what
they call a Christian in Spain, and that is a Roman
Catholic. But here is the felucca. Now mind what I
have said, for your own safety.”

Filipe ran the bow of his craft up to the rocks on
which the fugitives were standing, and they leaped on
board of her. The boatman’s assistant shoved her off,
and in a moment more she was driving down the harbor
before the fresh breeze. The second man in the boat
was not more than twenty years old, while Filipe
was apparently about forty–five. He introduced his
companion as his son, and said his name was John
(_Juan_).

At the suggestion of Raimundo, the fugitives coiled
themselves away in the bottom of the felucca, so that
no inquisitive glass on board of the vessels or on the
shore should reveal their presence to any one that
wanted them. In this position they had an opportunity
to examine the craft that was to convey them out of the
reach of danger, as they hoped and believed. She was
not so large as the craft that Filipe had pointed out as
the model of his own; but she carried two sails, and
was decked over forward so as to form quite a roomy
cuddy. She was pointed at both ends, and sailed like
a yacht. It was about one o’clock when the party went
on board of her, and at her present rate of speed she
would reach her destination in six or seven hours. She
had the wind on her beam, and the indications were
that she would have it fair all the way. There was not
a cloud in the sky, and there was every promise of fair
weather for the rest of the day. When the felucca had
passed Monjuich, the party ventured to move about the
craft, as they were no longer in danger of being seen
from the city or the fleet; but they took the precaution
to keep out of sight when they passed any other craft
which might report them to their anxious friends in
Barcelona.

“What have you got to eat, Filipe?” asked Raimundo,
when the felucca was clear of the city.

“Plenty to eat and drink,” replied the skipper.

“Let me see what you have, for I am beginning to
have an appetite.”

[Illustration: “RAIMUNDO DID NOT HESITATE TO STRIKE HIM DOWN.” Page 172.]

Juan was directed to bring out the hamper of provisions
his father had purchased. Certainly there were
enough of them; but the quality was any thing but
satisfactory. Coarse black bread, sausages that looked
like Bolognas, and half a dozen bottles of cheap wine,
were the principal articles in the hamper. The whole
could not have cost half the money given to the boatman.
But Filipe insisted that he had paid a _peseta_
more than the sum handed him.

Raimundo inquired into this matter more because he
was anxious to know about the character of the man
than because he cared for the sum expended. He felt
that he was, in a measure, in this man’s power; and he
desired to ascertain what sort of a person he had to
deal with. If he was not wicked enough to cut the
throats of his passengers, or to throw them overboard
for their money, he might betray them when there was
no more money to be made out of them. The inquiry
was not at all satisfactory in its results. Filipe had
cheated him on the provisions; and Raimundo was
confident that he would do so in other matters to the
extent of his opportunities.

The food tasted better than it looked; and Raimundo
made a hearty meal, as did all the others on board,
including the boatmen. Raimundo would not drink
any of the wine; but his companions did so quite freely,
in spite of his caution. He noticed that Filipe urged
them to drink, and seemed to be vexed when he could
not induce him to taste the wine.

“Where are you going when you get to Tarragona?”
asked the boatman, when the collation was disposed of.

“I think I shall go to Cadiz, and join my ship when
she arrives there,” replied Raimundo.

“To Cadiz!” exclaimed Filipe. “How can you go
to Cadiz when you have no money?”

Raimundo saw that he had said too much, and that
the skipper wished to inquire into his finances.

“I shall get some money in Tarragona,” he replied;
but he did not deem it prudent to mention his letter of
credit.

Filipe continued to ply him with questions, which he
evaded answering as well as he could. He did his
best to produce the impression on his mind that he
had no money. The boatman asked him about his
companions, whether they could not let him have all
the money he wanted to enable him to reach Cadiz.
Why did they leave their ship if they had no money?
How did he expect to get money in Tarragona?

“How do I know that you will pay me if you are so
poor?” demanded Filipe, evidently much vexed at the
result of his inquiry.

“I have money enough to pay you, and a few dollars
more,” replied Raimundo.

“I don’t know: I think you had better pay me now,
before I go any farther.”

“No, I will not pay you till we get to Tarragona,”
replied the young Spaniard.

“I don’t know that you have money enough to pay
me,” persisted the boatman.

Raimundo took from his pocket the three isabelinos
he had reserved for the purpose of paying for the
boat, with the silver he had left, and showed them to
the rapacious skipper.

“That will convince you that I have the money,”
said he, as he returned the gold and silver to his
pocket.

He resolutely refused to pay for the boat till her
work was done. By this time Bill and Bark, overcome
by the wine they had drunk, were fast asleep in the
cuddy where they had gone at the invitation of the boatman.
Raimundo was inclined to join them; but the
skipper was a treacherous fellow, and it was not prudent
to do so. After all the man’s efforts to ascertain
what money he had, he was actually afraid the fellow
would attack him, and attempt to search his pockets.
There were brigands in Spain,—at least, a party had
been recently robbed by some in the south; and there
might be pirates as well. So confident was the passenger
of the evil intentions of Filipe, that he believed, if
he was not robbed, it would be because the man supposed
he had no more money than he had shown him.
He kept his eye on a spare tiller in the boat, which he
meant to use in self–defence if the occasion should
require.

Just before dark Bill and Bark, having slept off the
effect of the wine, awoke, and came out of the cuddy.
Filipe proposed that they should have supper before
dark, and ordered Juan to bring out the hamper.
Raimundo did not want any supper, and refused to eat
or drink. Bark and Bill were not hungry, and also
declined. Then the skipper urged them to drink.

“Don’t taste another drop,” said Raimundo earnestly.
“That man means mischief.”

“Do you mean to insult me?” demanded Filipe,
fixing a savage scowl upon Raimundo.

It was plain enough now that the man understood
English, though he had not yet spoken a word of it,
and had refused to answer when spoken to in that language.
At the same time he left the helm, which Juan
took as though he was beside his father for that purpose.
Raimundo leaped from his seat, with the tiller in
his hand; for he had kept his place where he could lay
his hand upon it.

“Stand by me!” shouted he to his companions.

Filipe rushed upon Raimundo, and attempted to
seize him by the throat. The young officer struck at
him with the tiller, but did not hit him. He dodged
the blow; but it fanned his wrath to the highest pitch.
Raimundo saw him thrust his hand into his breast–pocket;
and he was sure there was a knife there. He
raised his club again; but at this instant Bark Lingall
threw his arms around the boatman’s throat, and, jamming
his knees into his back, brought him down on his
face in the bottom of the boat.

“Hold him down! don’t let him up!” cried Raimundo.

Bark was a stout fellow; and he held on, in spite of
the struggles of the Spaniard. At this moment Juan
left the tiller, and rushed forward to take a hand in the
conflict, now that his father had got the worst of it. He
had a knife in his hand, and Raimundo did not hesitate
to strike him down with the heavy tiller; and he lay
senseless in the bottom of the felucca. The young
officer then went to the assistance of Bark Lingall;
and, in a few minutes more, they had bound the skipper
hand and foot, and lashed him down to the floor.



CHAPTER XII.

SIGHTS IN MADRID.


After an early breakfast—early for Spain—the
students were assembled in a large hall provided
by the landlord; and Professor Mapps gave the usual
lesson relating to the city they were visiting:—

“The population of Madrid has fallen off from about
four hundred thousand to the neighborhood of three
hundred thousand. The city was in existence in the
tenth century, but was not of much account till the
sixteenth, when Charles V. took up his residence here.
Toledo was at that time the capital, as about every
prominent city of Spain had been before. In 1560
Philip III. made Madrid the sole capital of the country;
and it has held this distinction down to this day, though
Philip II. tried to move it to Valladolid. It is twenty–two
hundred feet above the level of the sea; and the
cutting off of all the trees in the vicinity—and I may
add in all Spain—has injuriously affected the climate.
This region has been said to have but two seasons,—‘nine
months of winter, and three months of hell.’ If
it is very cold in winter, it is probably by comparison
with the southern part of the peninsula. Like many
other cities of Spain, Madrid has been captured by the
English and the French.”

Though the professor had much more to say, we
shall report only these few sentences. The students
hastened out to see the city; and the surgeon took the
captain and the first lieutenant under his wing, as usual.
They went into the _Puerta del Sol_,—the Gate of the
Sun. Most of the city in early days lay west of this
point, so that its eastern gate was where the centre now
is. As the sun first shone on this gate, it was called
the gate of the sun. Though the gate is gone, the
place where it was located still retains the name. It is
nearly in the shape of an ellipse; and most of the
principal streets radiate from it. It usually presents a
very lively scene, by day or by night. It is always full
of peddlers of matches, newspapers, lottery–tickets, and
other merchandise.

“Where shall we go?” said the doctor.

“We will leave that to you,” replied Sheridan. “You
know the ropes in this ship, and we don’t.”

“I think we will go first to the royal palace; and we
had better take a _berlina_, as they call it here.”

“A _berlina_? Is it a pill?” asked Murray.

“No; it is a carriage,” laughed the doctor. “Do
you see that one with a tin sign on the corner, with ‘_se
alquila_’ painted on it? That means that the vehicle is
not engaged.”

The _berlina_ was called, and the party were driven
down the _Calla del Arenal_ to the palace. It is a magnificent
building, one of the finest in Europe, towering
far above every thing else in the city. It is the most
sightly structure in Madrid. In front of it is the _Plaza
del Oriente_, and in the rear are extensive gardens, reaching
down to the Manzanares. On the right of it are
the royal stables, and on the left is the royal armory.

“When I was in Madrid, in the time of the late
queen, no one was admitted to the palace because some
vandal tourists had damaged the frescos and marbles,”
said Dr. Winstock. “But for the last year it has been
opened. Your uniform and my passport will open the
doors to us.”

“What has the uniform to do with it?” asked Murray.

“A uniform is generally respected in Europe; for it
indicates that those who wear it hold some naval or
military office.”

“We don’t hold any such office,” added Sheridan.

“But you are officers of a very respectable institution.”

As the doctor anticipated, admission was readily
obtained; and the trio were conducted all over the
palace, not excepting the apartments of the late queen.
There is nothing especially noteworthy about it, for it
was not unlike a score of other palaces the party had
visited.

In the stables, the party saw the state coaches; but,
as they had seen so many royal carriages, they were
more interested in an American buggy because it
looked like home. The doctor pointed out the old
coach in which Crazy Jane carried about with her the
body of her dead husband. The provisional government
had sold off most of the horses and mules. In
the yard is a bath for horses.

From the stables the trio went to the armory, which
contains many objects of interest. The suits of armor
are kept as clean and nice as they were when in use.
Those worn by Charles V. and Philip II. were examined
with much care; but there seemed to be no marks
of any hard knocks on them. At the head of the room
stands a figure of St. Ferdinand, dressed in regal robes,
with a golden crown on the head and a sword in the
hand, which is borne in solemn procession to the royal
chapel by priests, on the 29th of May, and is kept there
two weeks to receive the homage of the people.

In another room is a great variety of articles of historic
interest, among which may be mentioned the steel
writing–desk of Charles V., the armor he wore when he
entered Tunis, his camp–stool and bed, and, above all,
the steel armor, ornamented with gold, that was worn
by Columbus. In the collection of swords were those
of the principal kings, the great captain, and other
heroes.

“There is the armor of Isabella, which she wore
at the siege of Granada,” said the doctor.

“Did she fight?” asked Murray.

“No more than her husband. Both were sovereigns
in their own right; and it was the fashion to wear these
things.”

“Very likely she had this on when Columbus called
to see her at Granada,” suggested Sheridan.

“I don’t know about that. I fancy she did not
wear it in the house, but only when she presented herself
before the army,” replied the doctor.

The party spent a long time in this building, so
interested were the young men in viewing these memorials
of the past grandeur of Spain. After dinner they
went to the naval museum, which is near the armory.
It contains a great number of naval relics, models of
historic vessels, captured flags, and similar mementos
of the past. The chart of Columbus was particularly
interesting to the students from the New World. There
are several historical paintings, representing scenes in
the lives of Cortes, Pizarro, and De Soto. A portrait
of Columbus is flanked on each side by those of the
sovereigns who patronized him.

“This is a beautiful day,” said Dr. Winstock, as
they left the museum. “They call it very cold here,
when the mercury falls below the freezing point. It
does not often get below twenty–four, and seldom so
low as that. I think the glass to–day is as high as
fifty–five.”

“I call it a warm day for winter,” added Sheridan.

“But the air of this city is very subtle. It will kill
a man, the Spaniards say, when it will not blow out a
candle. I think we had better take a _berlina_, and ride
over to the _Prado_. The day is so fine that we may
possibly see some of the summer glories of the place.”

“What are they?” asked Murray.

“To me they are the people who walk there; but of
course the place is the pleasantest when the trees and
shrubs are in foliage.”

A _berlina_ was called, and the party drove through
the _Calle Mayor_, the _Puerta del Sol_, and the _Calle de
Alcala_, which form a continuous street, the broadest
and finest in Madrid, from the palace to the Prado,
which are on opposite sides of the city. A continuation
of this street forms one end of the _Prado_; and another
of the _Calle de Atocha_, a broad avenue reaching from
the _Plaza Mayor_, near the palace, forms the other end.
These are the two widest streets of Madrid. The _Calle
de Alcala_ is wide enough to be called a boulevard,
and contains some of the finest buildings in the city.

“That must be the bull–ring,” said Sheridan, as the
party came in sight of an immense circular building.
“I have read that it will hold twelve thousand people.”

“Some say sixteen thousand; but I think it would
not take long to count all it would hold above ten
thousand. Philip V. did not like bull–fights, and he
tried to do away with them; but the spectacle is the
national sport, and the king made himself very unpopular
by attempting to abolish it. As a stroke of policy,
to regain his popularity, he built this _Plaza de Toros_.
It is what you see; but it is open to the weather in the
middle; and all bull–fights are held, ‘_Si el tiempo no lo
impide_’ (if the weather does not prevent it). This is
the _Puerta de Alcala_,” continued the doctor, pointing
to a triumphal arch about seventy feet high, built by
Charles III. “The gardens on the right are the ‘_Buen
Retiro_,’ pleasant retreat. Now we will turn, and go
through the _Prado_, though all this open space is often
called by this name.”

“But what is the ‘pleasant retreat’?”

“It is a sort of park and garden, not very attractive
at that, with a pond, a menagerie, and an observatory.
It is not worth the trouble of a visit,” added the doctor,
as he directed the driver to turn the _berlina_.

“I have often seen a picture of that statue,” said
Sheridan, as they passed a piece of sculpture representing
a female seated on a chariot drawn by lions.

“That is the Cybele.”

“Who is she?”

“Wife of Saturn, and mother of the gods,” replied
Sheridan.

“This is the _Salon del Prado_” continued the doctor,
as the carriage turned to the left into an avenue
two hundred feet wide. “There are plenty of people
here, and I think we had better get out and walk, if
you are not too tired; for you want to see the people.”

The _berlina_ was dismissed, and the party joined the
throng of _Madrileños_. Dr. Winstock called the attention
of his young friends to three ladies who were
approaching them. They wore the mantilla, which is
a long black lace veil, worn as a head–dress, but falling
in graceful folds below the hips. The ladies—except
the high class, fashionable people—wear no bonnets.
The mantilla is a national costume, and the fan is a
national institution among them. They manage the
latter, as well as the former, with peculiar grace; and
it has even been said that they flirt with it, being able
to express their sentiments by its aid.

“But these ladies are not half so pretty as I supposed
the Spanish women were,” said Murray.

“That only proves that you supposed they were
handsomer than they are,” laughed Sheridan.

“They are not so handsome here as in Cadiz and
Seville, I grant,” added the doctor; “but still I think
they are not bad looking.”

“I will agree to that,” replied Murray. “They are
good–looking women, and that’s all you can say of
them.”

“Probably you have got some extravagant ideas
about Spanish girls from the novels you have read,”
laughed the doctor; “and it is not likely that your
ideal beauty will be realized, even in Cadiz and Seville.
Here is the _Dos de Mayo_.”

“Who’s she?” asked Murray, looking rather vacantly
at a granite obelisk in the middle of an enclosed garden.

“It is not a woman,” replied the doctor.

“Excuse me; I think you said a dose of something,”
added Murray.

“That monument has the name of ‘_El Dos de
Mayo_,’ which means ‘the second of May.’ It commemorates
a battle fought on this spot in 1808 by the
peasants, headed by three artillerymen, and the French.
The ground enclosed is called ‘The Field of Loyalty.’”

“What is this long building ahead?” inquired Sheridan.

“That’s the Royal Museum, which contains the richest
collection of paintings in Europe.”

“Isn’t that putting it pretty strong, after what we
have seen in Italy and Germany?” asked Sheridan.

“I don’t say the largest or the best–arranged collection
in Europe, but the richest. It has more of the old
masters, of the best and most valuable pictures in the
world, than any other museum. We will go there
to–morrow, and you can judge for yourselves.”

“Of course we are competent to do that,” added
Murray with a laugh.

“We haven’t been to any churches yet, doctor,” said
Sheridan.

“There are many churches in Madrid, but none of
any great interest. The city has no cathedral.”

“I am thankful for that!” exclaimed Murray. “I
have seen churches enough, though of course I shall go
to the great cathedrals when we come to them.”

“You will be spared in Madrid. Philip II. was
asked to erect one; but he would appropriate only a
small sum for the purpose, because he did not wish any
church to rival that of the Escurial.”

“I am grateful to him,” added Murray.

“The Atocha church contains an image which is
among the most venerated in Spain. It works miracles,
and was carved by St. Luke.”

“Another job by St. Luke!” exclaimed Murray.

“That is hardly respectful to an image whose magnificent
dress and rich jewels would build half a score
of cheap churches.”

“Are there any theatres in Madrid, doctor?” asked
Murray.

“Of course there are; half a dozen of them. The
principal is the Royal Theatre, near the palace, where
the performance is Italian opera. It is large enough
to hold two thousand; but there is nothing Spanish
about it. If you want to see the Spanish theatre you
must go to some of the smaller ones. As you don’t
understand Spanish, I think you will not enjoy it.”

“I want to see the customs of the country.”

“The only custom you will see will be smoking; and
you can see that anywhere, except in the churches,
where alone, I believe, it is not permitted. Everybody
smokes, even the women and children. I have seen a
youngster not more than five years old struggling with
a _cigarillo_; and I suppose it made him sick before he
got through with it; at least, I hope it did, for the
nausea is nature’s protest against the practice.”

“But do the ladies smoke?”

“Not in public; but in private many of them do. I
have seen some very pretty girls smoking in Spain.”

“I don’t remember that I have seen a man drunk in
Spain,” said Sheridan.

“Probably you have not; I never did. The Spaniards
are very temperate.”

This long talk brought the party back to the hotel
just at dark. The next day was Sunday; but many of
the students visited the churches, though most of them
were willing to make it a day of rest, in the strictest
sense of the word. On Monday morning, as the
museum did not open till one o’clock, the doctor and
his _protégés_ took a _berlina_, and rode out to the palace
of the Marquis of Salamanca, where they were permitted
to explore this elegant residence without restraint.
In one of the apartments they saw a large
picture of the Landing of the Pilgrims, by a Spanish
artist; and it was certainly a strange subject. Connected
with the palace is a museum of antiquities quite
extensive for a private individual to own. The Pompeian
rooms contain a vast quantity of articles from
the buried city.

“Who is this Marquis of Salamanca?” asked Sheridan,
as they started on their return.

“He is a Spanish nobleman, a grandee of Spain
I suppose, who is somewhat noted as a financier.
He has invested some money in railroads in the United
States. The town of Salamanca, at the junction of the
Erie and Great Western, in Western New York, was
named after him,” replied Dr. Winstock.

“I have been through the place,” added Sheridan.

“This is not a very luxurious neighborhood,” said
Murray, when they came to one of those villages of
poor people, of which there were several just outside
of the city.

“Generally in Europe the rich are very rich, and the
poor are very poor. Though the rich are not as rich in
Spain as in some other countries, there is no exception
to the rule in its application to the poor. These hovels
are even worse than the homes of the poor in Russia.
Wouldn’t you like to look into one of them?”

“Would it be considered rude for us to do so?”
asked Sheridan.

“Not at all. These people are not so sensitive as
poor folks in America; but, if they are hurt by our
curiosity, a couple of _reales_ will repair all the damages.”

“Is this a _château en Espagne_?” said Murray. “I
have read about such things, but I never saw one
before.”

“_Châteaux en Espagne_ are castles in the air,—things
unreal and unsubstantial; and, so far as the idea of
comfort is concerned, this is a _château en Espagne_. When
we were in Ireland, an old woman ran out of a far
worse shanty than this, and, calling it an Irish castle,
begged for money. In the same sense we may call
this a Spanish castle.”

The carriage was stopped, and the party alighted.

“You see, the people live out–doors, even in the
winter,” said the doctor. “The door of this house is
wide open, and you can look in.”

The proprietor of the establishment stood near the
door. He wore his cloak with as much style as though
he had been an hidalgo. Under this garment his clothes
were ragged and dirty; and he wore a pair of spatterdashes,
most of the buttons of which were wanting, and
it was only at a pinch that they staid on his ankles.
His wife and four children stopped their work, or their
play, as the case was, and gazed at the unwonted
visitors.

“_Buenos dias, caballero_,” said the doctor, as politely
as though he had been saluting a grandee.

The man replied no less politely.

“May we look into your house?” asked the doctor.

“_Esta muy a la disposicion de usted_,” replied the
_caballero_ (it is entirely at your disposal).

This is a _cosa de España_. If you speak of any thing
a Spaniard has, he makes you a present of it, be it his
house or his horse, or any thing else; but you are not
expected to avail yourself of his generosity. It would
be as impolite to take him at his word as it would be
for him not to place it “at your disposal.”

The house was of one story, and had but one door
and one window, the latter very small indeed. The
floor was of cobble–stones bedded in the mud. The
little window was nothing but a hole; there was no
glass in it; and the doctor said, that, when the weather
was bad, the occupants had to close the door, and put
a shutter over the window, so that they had no light.
The interior was divided into two rooms, one containing
a bed. Every thing was as simple as possible.
The roof of the shanty was covered with tile which
looked like broken flower–pots. In front, for use in
the summer, was an attempt at a veranda, with vines
running up the posts.

The doctor gave the smallest of the children a _peseta_,
and bade the man a stately adieu, which was answered
with dignity enough for an ambassador. The party
drove off, glad to have seen the interior of a Spanish
house.

“Why did you give the money to the child instead
of the father?” asked Sheridan.

“I suppose your experience in other parts of Europe
would not help you to believe it, but the average Spaniard
who is not a professional beggar is too proud to
receive money for any small favor,” replied the doctor.
“I have had a _peseta_ indignantly refused by a man who
had rendered me a small service. This is as strange
as it is true, though, when you come to ride on a _diligencia_,
you will find that driver, postilion, and _zagal_ will
do their best to get a gratuity out of you. I speak
only of the Spaniard who does you a favor, and not
those with whom you deal; but, as a general rule, the
people are too proud to cheat you.”

“They are very odd sort of people,” added Murray.
“There is one shovelling with his cloak on.”

“Not an unusual sight. I have seen a man ploughing
in the field with his cloak on, and that on a rather
warm day. You notice here that the houses are not
scattered as they are with us; but even these shanties
are built in villages,” continued the doctor.

“I noticed that the houses were all in villages in all
the country we have come through since we left Barcelona,”
said Murray.

“Can you explain the reason?”

“I do not see any reason except that is the fashion
of the country.”

“There is a better reason than that. In early days
the people had to live in villages in order to be able
to defend themselves from enemies. In Spain the
custom never changes, if isolated houses are even safe
at the present time.”

“What is that sheet of paper hanging on the balcony
for?” asked Murray. “There is another; and
now I can see half a dozen of them.” The _berlina_
was within a short distance of the _Puerta del Sol_.

“A sheet of white paper in the middle of the balcony
signifies that the people have rooms to let; if at
the corner, they take boarders.”

The party arrived at the hotel in season for dinner;
and, when it was over, they hastened to the _Museo_, or
picture–gallery. The building is very long, and of no
particular architectural effect. It has ten apartments
on the principal floor, in which are placed the gems of
the collection. In the centre of the edifice is a very
long room which contains the burden of the paintings.
There are over two thousand of them, and they are the
property of the Crown. Among them are sixty–two by
Rubens, fifty–three by Teniers, ten by Raphael, forty–six
by Murillo, sixty–four by Velasquez, twenty–two by
Van Dyck, forty–three by Titian, thirty–four by Tintoretto,
twenty–five by Paul Veronese, and hundreds by
other masters hardly less celebrated.

The doctor’s party spent three hours among these
pictures, and they went to the museum for the same
time the next day; for they could better appreciate
these gems than most of the students, many of whom
were not willing to use a single hour in looking at
them. Our party visited the public buildings, and
took many rides and walks in the city and its vicinity,
which we have not the space to report. On Wednesday
morning the ship’s company started for Toledo.



CHAPTER XIII.

AFTER THE BATTLE IN THE FELUCCA.


We left the second master of the Tritonia and
the two runaway seamen in a rather critical
situation on board of the felucca. We regret the
necessity of jumping about all over Spain to keep the
run of our characters; but we are obliged to conform
to the arrangement of the principal,—who was absolute
in his sway,—and follow the young gentlemen
wherever he sends them. Though Mr. Lowington was
informed, before his departure with the ship’s company
of the Prince, of the escape of Raimundo and the two
“marines,” he was content to leave the steps for the recovery
of the runaways to the good judgment of the
vice–principal in charge of the Tritonia.

Raimundo had managed his case so well that the
departure of the three students from the vessel was not
discovered by any one on board or on shore. If the
_alguacil_ was on the lookout for his prisoner, he had
failed to find him, or to obtain any information in regard
to him. The circumstances had certainly favored
the escape in the highest degree. The distance across
the harbor, the concealment afforded by the hulls of
the vessels of the fleet, and the shadow of the sea–wall
under which the fugitives had placed themselves, had
prevented them from being seen. Indeed, no one
could have seen them, except from the deck of the
Tritonia or the Josephine; and probably those on
board of the latter were below, as they were on the
former.

Of course Mr. Salter, the chief steward of the Tritonia,
was very much astonished when he found that
the prisoners had escaped from the brig. Doubtless he
made as much of an excitement as was possible with
only one of his assistants to help him. He had no
boat; and he was unable to find one from the shore
till the felucca was well out of the harbor. Probably
Hugo was as zealous as the occasion required in the
investigation of the means by which the fugitives had
escaped; but he was as much astonished as his chief
when told that Bill Stout and Bark Lingall were gone.
The brig was in its usual condition, with the door
locked; but the unfastened scuttle soon disclosed the
mode of egress selected by the rogues. Mr. Pelham,
assisted by Mr. Fluxion, vice–principal of the Josephine,
did all they could to find the two “marines,”
without any success whatever; but they had no suspicion
that the second master, who had disappeared the
night before, was one of the party.

The next morning all hands from the two consorts
were sent on board of the American Prince. Mr.
Fluxion was the senior vice–principal, and had the command
of the vessel. The ship’s company of the Josephine
formed the starboard, and that of the Tritonia
the port watch. The officers took rank in each grade
according to seniority. Mr. Fluxion was unwilling to
sail until he had drilled this miscellaneous ship’s company
in their new duties. He had a superabundance
of officers, and it was necessary for them to know their
places. In the morning he had telegraphed to the
principal at Saragossa, in regard to the fugitives; and
the order came back for him to sail without them. Mr.
Lowington was not disposed to waste much of his time
in looking for runaways: they were pretty sure to come
back without much assistance. At noon the Prince
sailed for Lisbon; and all on board of her were
delighted with the novelty of the new situation. As it
is not necessary to follow the steamer, which safely
arrived at Lisbon on the following Sunday morning, we
will return to Raimundo and his companions.

Filipe, struggling, and swearing the heaviest oaths,
was bound hand and foot in the bottom of the felucca,
and lashed to the heel of the mainmast. Juan lay
insensible in the space between the cuddy and the
mainmast, where he had fallen when the young Spaniard
hit him with the spare tiller. The boat had
broached to when the helm was abandoned by the
boatman’s son, to go to the assistance of his father.
Of course Raimundo and Bark were very much excited
by this sudden encounter; and it had required the
united strength of both of them to overcome the boatman,
though he was not a large man. Bill Stout had
done nothing. He had not the pluck to help secure
Filipe after he had been thrown down, or rather
dragged down, by Bark.

As soon as the victory was accomplished, Raimundo
sprang to the helm, and brought the felucca up to her
course again. His chest heaved, and his breathing was
so violent as to be audible. Bark was in no better
condition; and, if Juan had come to his senses at that
moment, he might have conquered both of them.

“Pick up that knife, Lingall,” said Raimundo, as
soon as he was able to speak.

He pointed to the knife which the boatman had
dropped during the struggle; and Bark picked it up.

“Now throw it overboard,” added the second master.
“We can handle these men, I think, if there are
no knives in the case.”

“No; don’t do that!” interposed Bill Stout. “Give
it to me.”

“Give it to you, you coward!” replied Raimundo.
“What do you want of it?”

“I will use it if we get into another fight. I don’t
like to tackle a man with a knife in his hand, when I
have no weapon of any kind,” answered Bill, who,
when the danger was over, began to assume his usual
bullying tone and manner.

“Over with it, Lingall!” repeated Raimundo sharply.
“You are good for nothing, Stout: you had not pluck
enough to touch the man after your friend had him
down.”

Bark waited for no more, but tossed the knife into
the sea. He never “took any stock” in Bill Stout’s
bluster; but he had not suspected that the fellow
was such an arrant coward. As compared with Raimundo,
who had risen vastly in his estimation within
the last few hours, he thoroughly despised his fellow–conspirator.
If he did not believe it before, he was
satisfied now, that the gentlest and most correct students
could also be the best fellows. However it had
been before, Bill no longer had any influence over him;
while he was ready to obey the slightest wish of the
second master, whom he had hated only the day before.

“See if you can find the other knife,—the one the
young man had,” continued Raimundo.

“I see it,” replied Bark; and he picked up the ugly
weapon.

“Send it after the other. The less knives we have
on board, the better off we shall be,” added the second
master. “I don’t like the habit of my countrymen in
carrying the _cuchilla_ any better than I do that of yours
in the use of revolvers.”

“I think it was stupid to throw away those knives,
when you have to fight such fellows as these,” said
Bill Stout, as he glanced at the prostrate form of the
older boatman, who was writhing to break away from
his bonds.

“Your opinion on that subject is of no value just
now,” added Raimundo contemptuously.

“What do you say, Bark?” continued Bill, appealing
to his confederate.

“I agree with Raimundo,” answered Bark. “I
don’t want to be mixed up in any fight where knives
are used.”

“And I object just as much to knifing a man as I
do to being knifed,” said Raimundo. “Though I am
a Spaniard, I don’t think I would use a knife to save
my own life.”

“I would,” blustered Bill.

“No, you wouldn’t: you haven’t pluck enough to do
any thing,” retorted Bark. “I advise you not to say
any thing more on this subject, Stout.”

At this moment Filipe made a desperate attempt to
free himself; and Bill retreated to the forecastle, evidently
determined not to be in the way if another
battle took place. Bark picked up the spare tiller the
second master had dropped, and prepared to defend
himself. Another club was found, and each of those
who had the pluck to use was well prepared for
another attack.

“Lie still, or I will hit you over the head!” said
Bark to the struggling skipper, as he flourished the
tiller over him.

But the ropes with which he was secured were strong
and well knotted. Bark was a good sailor, and he had
done this part of the work. He looked over the fastenings,
and made sure that they were all right.

“He can’t get loose, Mr. Raimundo,” said he.

“But Juan is beginning to come to his senses,”
added the second master. “He has just turned half
over.”

“I hope he is not much hurt: we may get into a
scrape if he is.”

“I was just thinking of that. But I don’t believe
he is very badly damaged,” added Raimundo. “If
the old man can’t get away, suppose you look him
over, and see what his condition is.”

Bark complied with this request. Filipe seemed to
be interested in this inquiry; and he lay quite still
while the examination was in progress. The young
sailor found a wound and a considerable swelling on
the side of Juan’s head; but it was now so dark that
he could not distinctly see the nature of the injury.

“Have you a match, Mr. Raimundo?” he asked.

“I have not. We were not allowed to have matches
on board the Tritonia,” replied the second master.

“_Tengo pajuelas_,” said Filipe. “_Una linterna en el
camarote de proa._”

“What does he say?” inquired Bark, glad to find
that the skipper was no longer pugnacious.

“He says he has matches, and that there is a lantern
in the cuddy,” replied Raimundo. “Here, Stout, look
in the cuddy, and see if you can find a lantern
there.”

Bill had the grace to obey the order, though he was
tempted to refuse to do so. He found the lantern, for
he had seen it while he lay in the cuddy. He brought
it to Bark, and took the lamp out of the globe.

“You will find some matches in Filipe’s pockets,”
added Raimundo.

“I have matches enough,” answered Bill.

“I forgot that you used matches,” said the second
master; “but I am glad you have a chance to make
a better use of them than you did on board of the
Tritonia.”

“You needn’t say any thing! You are the first
officer that ever run away from that vessel,” growled
Bill, as he lighted a match, and communicated the blaze
to the wick of the lamp.

It was a kerosene–lamp, just such as is used at home,
and probably came from the United States. Bark
proceeded to examine the wound of Juan, and found it
was not a severe one. The young man was rapidly
coming to himself, and in a few minutes more he would
be able to take care of himself.

“I think we had better move him into the cuddy,”
suggested Bark. “We can make him comfortable
there, and fasten him in at the same time.”

“That’s a capital idea, Lingall; and if Stout will
take the helm I will help you move him,” answered
Raimundo.

“I will help move him,” volunteered Bill.

“I supposed you were afraid of him,” added the
second master. “He has about come to himself.”

Juan spoke then, and complained of his head. Bark
and Bill lifted him up, and carried him to the cuddy,
where they placed him on the bed of old garments upon
which they had slept themselves during the afternoon.
Bark had some little reputation among his companions
as a surgeon, probably because he always carried a
sheet of court–plaster in his pocket, and sometimes had
occasion to attend to the wounds of his friends. Perhaps
he had also a taste for this sort of thing; for he
was generally called upon in all cases of broken heads,
before the chief steward, who was the amateur surgeon
of the Tritonia, was summoned. At any rate, Bark,
either from genuine kindness, or the love of amateur
surgical dressing, was not content to let the wounded
Spaniard rest till he had done something more for
him. He washed the injury in fresh water, closed the
ugly cut with a piece of court–plaster, and then bound
up the head of the patient with his own handkerchief.

The wounded man tried to talk to him; but he could
not understand a word he said. If his father spoke
English, it was certain that the son did not. When he
had done all this, Bark relieved Raimundo at the helm,
and the latter went forward to talk with the patient,
who was so quiet that Bark had not thought of fastening
the door of the cuddy.

“I am well now,” said Juan, “and I want to go out.”

“You must not go out of this place; if you do, we
shall hit you over the head again,” replied the second
master sternly.

“Where is my father?” asked the patient.

“He is tied hand and foot; and we shall tie you in
the same way if you don’t keep still and obey orders,”
added Raimundo. “Lie still where you are, and no
harm shall be done to you.”

Raimundo, taking the lantern with him, left the
cuddy, and fastened it behind him with the padlock he
found in the staple. Putting the key in his pocket, he
made an examination into the condition of Filipe, with
the aid of the lantern. He found him still securely
bound, and, better than that, as quiet as a lamb.

“How is my son?” asked he.

“He is doing very well. We have dressed his
wound, and he will be as well as ever in a day or two,”
replied Raimundo.

“_Gracias, muchos gracias!_” exclaimed the prisoner.

“If we had been armed as you were, he might have
lost his life,” added Raimundo, moving aft to the helm.
“I think we are all right, Lingall.”

“I am very glad of it. We came very near getting
into a bad scrape,” replied Bark.

“It is bad enough as it is. I have been afraid of
something of this kind ever since we got well out of
the port of Barcelona,” continued the second master.
“The villain asked me so many questions about my
money that my suspicions were excited, and I was on
the watch for him. Then he was so anxious that we
should drink wine, I was almost sure he meant mischief.”

“I am very sorry I drank any wine. It only makes
my head ache,” replied Bark penitently.

“I have heard my uncle speak of these men; and I
know something about them.”

“The wine did not make my head ache,” said Bill.

“That’s because there is nothing in it,” answered
Raimundo, who could not restrain his contempt for the
incendiary.

“But I do not understand exactly how the fight was
begun,” said Bark. “The first I knew, the boatman
sprang at you.”

“That’s the first I knew, though I was on the lookout
for him, as I had been all the afternoon. He
understood what I meant when I told you this man
means mischief.”

“But he told you he could not speak English.”

“Most of the boatmen speak more or less English:
they learn it from the passengers they carry. He
wanted to know whether we had money before he did
any thing. He was probably satisfied that we had
some before he attempted to assault us.”

“I know you have money,” cried Filipe, in English;
and he seemed to be more anxious to prove the correctness
of his conclusion than to disprove his wicked
intentions.

“You have not got any of it yet,” replied Raimundo.

“But I will have it!” protested the villain.

“You tempt me to throw you and your son overboard,”
said Raimundo sternly, in Spanish.

“Not my son,” answered the villain, suddenly changing
his tone. “He is his mother’s only boy.”

“You should have thought of that before you brought
him with you on such business.”

The boatman, for such a villain as he was, seemed to
have a strange affection for his son; and Raimundo was
almost willing to believe he had not intended till some
time after they left the port to rob his passengers. Perhaps,
with the aid of the wine, he had expected an easy
victory; for, though the students were all stout fellows,
they were but boys.

“I will not harm you if you do not injure my boy,”
pleaded Filipe.

“It is not in your power to harm us now; for we
have all the power,” replied the second master.

“But you are deserters from your ship. I can tell
where you are,” added Filipe, with something like
triumph in his tones.

“We expect you to tell all you know as soon as you
return.”

“I can do it in Tarragona: they will arrest you there
if I tell them.”

“We are not afraid of that: if we were, we should
throw you and your son overboard.”

Filipe did not like this side of the argument, and he
was silent for some time. It must be confessed that
Raimundo did not like his side any better. The fellow
could inform the police in Tarragona that the party
were deserters, and cause them to be sent back to Barcelona.
Though this was better than throwing the
boatman and his son overboard, which was only an idle
threat, it would spoil all his calculations, and defeat
all his plans. He studied the case for some time, after
he had explained to Bark what had passed between
himself and Filipe in Spanish.

“You want more money than you were to receive
for the boat; do you, Filipe?” asked he.

“I have to pay five hundred _reales_ on this boat in
three days, or lose it and my small one too,” replied
the boatman; and the passenger was not sure he did
not invent the story as he went along. “I am not a
bad man; but I want two hundred _reales_ more than
you are to pay me.”

“Then you expect me to pay what I agreed, after
what has happened, do you?”

“You promised to pay it.”

“And you promised to take me to Tarragona; and
you have been trying to murder me on the way,” exclaimed
Raimundo indignantly.

“Oh, no! I did not mean to kill you, or to hurt
you; only to take two hundred _reales_ from you,”
pleaded the boatman, with the most refreshing candor.

“That’s all; is it?”

The villain protested, by the Virgin and all the saints
in the Spanish calendar, that he had not intended any
thing more than this; and Raimundo translated what
he said to his companion.

“There are a lot of lights on a high hill ahead,”
said Bill Stout, who had been looking at the shore,
which was only a short distance from them.

“That must be Tarragona,” replied the second master,
looking at his watch by the light of the lantern.
“It is ten minutes of seven; and we have been six
hours on the trip. I thought it would take about this
time. That must be Tarragona; it is on a hill eight
hundred feet high.”

“We have been sailing very fast, the last three
hours,” added Bark. “But how are we to get out of
this scrape?”

“I will see. Keep a sharp lookout on the starboard,
Lingall; and, when you see a place where you think we
can make a landing, let me know.—Can you steer,
Stout, and keep her as she is?”

“Of course I can steer. I don’t give up to any
fellow in handling a boat,” growled Bill.

Raimundo gave him the tiller; but he watched him
for a time, to see that he made good his word. The
bully did very well, and kept the felucca parallel with
the shore, as she had been all the afternoon.

“There is a mole makes out from the shore,” continued
the active skipper to Bark, who had gone
forward of the foremast to do the duty assigned to
him.

“Ay, ay! I can see it,” replied Bark.

“I think we need not quarrel, Filipe,” said Raimundo,
bending over the prisoner, and unloosing the
rope that bound his hands to the mast; but they were
still tied behind him. “We are almost into Tarragona,
and what we do must be done quickly.”

“Don’t harm Juan,” pleaded Filipe.

“That will depend on yourself, whether we do or
not,” replied Raimundo, as fiercely as he could speak.
“We are not to be trifled with; and Americans carry
pistols sometimes.”

“I will do what you wish,” answered Filipe.

“I will give you what I agreed, and two hundred
_reales_ besides, if you will keep still about our being
deserters; and that is all the money we have.”

“_Gracias!_ I will do it!” exclaimed the boatman.
“Release me, and I will land you outside of the mole,
and not go near the town to speak to any person.”

“I am afraid to trust you.”

“You can trust a Catalan when he promises;” and
Filipe proceeded to call upon the Virgin and the saints
to witness what he said.

“Where can we land?” asked the second master.

The boatman looked over the rail of the felucca;
and, when he had got his bearings, he indicated a point
where a safe landing might be made. It was not a
quarter of a mile distant; and Filipe said the mainsail
ought to be furled. Raimundo picked up the spare
tiller,—for, in spite of the Catalan’s oath and promise,
he was determined to be on the safe side,—and then
unfastened the ropes that bound the prisoner.

“If you play me false, I will brain you with this
club, and pitch your son into the sea!” said Raimundo,
as tragically as he could do the business.

“I will be true to my promise,” he replied, as he
brailed up the mainsail.

“You see that your money is ready for you as soon
as you land us,” continued Raimundo, as he showed
the villain five _Isabelinos_ he held in one hand, while he
grasped the spare tiller with the other.

“_Gracias!_” replied Filipe, who was possibly satisfied
when he found that he was to make the full sum he
had first named as his price; and it may be that he was
tempted by the urgency of his creditor to rob his passengers.

“Have your pistol ready, Lingall!” added Raimundo,
as the boatman, who had taken the helm from Bill, threw
the felucca up into the wind, and her keel began to
grate on the rocks.

“Ay, ay!” shouted Bark.

The boat ran her long bow up to the dry land, and
hung there by her bottom. Raimundo gave the five
hundred _reales_ to Filipe, and sprang ashore with the
tiller in his hand. Calling to Bark, they shoved off the
felucca, and then ran for the town.



CHAPTER XIV.

TOLEDO, AND TALKS ABOUT SPAIN.


Toledo is about fifty–six miles from Madrid. As
the principal had laid out a large day’s work, it
became necessary to procure a special train, as the first
regular one did not reach Toledo till after eleven
o’clock. The special was to leave at six; and it was
still dark when the long line of small omnibuses that
conveyed the company to the station passed through
the streets.

“What is the matter with that man?” asked Sheridan,
attracted by the cries of a man on the sidewalk
with a sort of pole in his hand.

“That’s a watchman,” replied the doctor.

“What’s he yelling about?”

“‘_Las cinco y medio y sereno_’ is what he says,” added
the surgeon. “‘Half–past five and pleasant weather’ is
the translation of his cry. When it rains he calls the
hour, and adds ‘_fluvioso_;’ when there is a fire he
informs the people on his beat of the fact, and gives
the locality of the conflagration, which he gets from
the fire–alarm. In some of the southern cities, as in
Seville, the watchman indulges in some pious exclamations,
‘Twelve o’clock, and may the Virgin watch over
our good city!’ It used to be the fashion in some of
the cities of our country, for the guardian of the night
to indulge in these cries to keep himself awake; and I
have heard him shout, ‘One o’clock and all is well’ in
Pittsburg.”

“I have walked about the _Puerta del Sol_ in the evening;
but I have not seen a watchman,” added Sheridan.

“Probably they do not use the cry early in the night,
in the streets where the people are gathered; at least,
there seems to be no need of it,” replied the doctor.
“But I suppose there are a great many things yet in
Madrid that you have not seen. For instance, did you
notice the water–carriers?”

“I did,” answered Murray. “They carry the water
in copper vessels something like a soda–fountain, placed
upon a kind of saddle, like the porters in Constantinople.

“Some of them have donkeys, with panniers in which
they put kegs, jars, and glass vessels filled with water.
These men are called ‘_aguadors_,’ and their occupation
is considered mean business; the _caballero_ whose
house we visited would be too proud to be a water–carrier,
and would rather starve than engage in it.”

The tourists left the omnibuses, and took their
places in the cars. As soon as the train had started,
as it was still too dark to see the country, the doctor
and his friends resumed the conversation about the
sights of Madrid.

“Did you go to the _Calle de la Abada_?” asked Dr.
Winstock.

“I don’t know: I didn’t notice the name of any such
street,” replied Sheridan; and Murray was no wiser,
both of them declaring that the Spanish names were
too much for them.

“It is not unlike Market Street in Philadelphia,
twenty years ago, when the middle of the avenue was
filled with stalls in a wooden building.”

“I saw that,” added Sheridan. “The street led to
a market. All the men and women that had any
thing to sell were yelling with all their might. They
tackled every person that came near.”

“I saw the dirt–cart go along this same street,” said
Murray. “It was a wagon with broad wheels as
though it was to do duty in a swamp, with a bell fixed
on the forward part. At the ring of the bell, the
women came out of their houses, and threw baskets
of dirt into the vehicle, which a man in it emptied and
returned to them.”

“I was in the city in fruit time once, and saw large
watermelons sold for four and six _cuartos_ apiece, a
_cuarto_ being about a cent,” continued the doctor.
“The nicest grapes sold for six _cuartos_ a pound.
Meat is dear, and so is fish, which has to be brought
from ports on the Mediterranean and the Bay of Biscay.
Bread is very good and cheap; but the shops
you saw were not bakeries: these are off by themselves.”

“They don’t seem to have any objection to lotteries
in Madrid,” said Sheridan. “I couldn’t move in the
great streets without being pestered with the sellers
of lottery–tickets.”

“There are plenty of them; for the Spaniards wish
to make fortunes without working for them.”

“Many of the lottery–venders are boys,” added
Murray. “They called me Señorito.”

“They called me the same. The word is a title of
respect, which means master. The drawing of a lottery
is a great event in the city, and the newspaper is sometimes
filled with the premium numbers.”

“I did not see so many beggars as I expected, after
all I had read about them,” said Sheridan. “But I
could understand their lingo, when they said, ‘For the
love of God.’”

“That is their universal cry. You will see enough
in the south to make up the deficiency of the capital,”
laughed the doctor. “They swarm in Granada and
Malaga; and you can’t get rid of them. In Madrid,
as in the cities of Russia, you will find the most of the
beggars near the churches, relying more upon those
who are pious enough to attend divine service than
upon those in the busy part of the city. They come
out after dark, and station themselves at any blank
wall, where there are no doors and windows, and address
the passers–by. By the way, did you happen to
see a cow–house?” asked the doctor.

Neither of the two students knew what he meant.

“It is more properly a milk–shop. In the front you
will see cups, on a clean white cloth on the table, for
those who wish to drink milk on the spot. Behind a
barred petition in the rear you will notice a number of
cows, some with calves, which are milked in the presence
of the customers, that they may know they get the
genuine article.”

“Don’t they keep any pump–handle?” asked Murray.

“I never saw any,” laughed the surgeon. “The
customers are allowed to put in the water to their own
taste, which I think is the best arrangement.”

“I saw plenty of cook–shops, like those in Paris,”
said Sheridan. “In one a cook was frying something
like Yankee doughnuts.”

“If you got up early enough to visit the breakfast–stalls
of the poorer people, you would have been interested.
A cheap chocolate takes the place of coffee,
which with bread forms the staple of the diet. But the
shops are dirty and always full of tobacco–smoke. The
higher classes in Spain are not so much given to feasting
and dining out as the English and Americans.
They are too poor to do it, and perhaps have no taste
for such expensive luxuries. The _tertulia_ is a kind of
evening party that takes the place of the dinner to
some extent, and is a _cosa de España_. Ladies and gentlemen
are invited,—except to literary occasions, which
are attended only by men,—and the evening is passed
in card–playing and small talk. Lemonade, or something
of the kind, is the only refreshment furnished.

“They go home sober, then,” laughed Murray.

“Spaniards always go home sober; but they do not
even have wine at the _tertulia_.”

“I have heard a great deal said about the _siesta_ in
Spain; and I have read that the shops shut up, and
business ceased entirely, for two or three hours in the
middle of the day,” said Sheridan; “but I did not see
any signs of the suspension of business in Madrid.”

“Very many take their _siesta_, even in Madrid; and
in the hot weather you would find it almost as you
have described it,—as quiet as Sunday,” replied the
doctor.

“Sunday was about as noisy a day as any in Madrid,”
added Murray.

“I meant a Sunday at home or in London. When
I was here last, the thirty–first day of October came on
Sunday; and it was the liveliest day I ever saw in
Spain. The forenoon was quiet; for some of the
people went to church. At noon there was a cock–fight,
attended by some of the most noted men in
Spain; and I went to it, though I was thoroughly disgusted
both with the sacrilege and the barbarity of the
show. At three o’clock came a bull–fight, lasting till
dark, in which eight bulls and seven horses were killed.
In the evening was the opera, and a great time at all
the theatres. I confess that I was ashamed of myself
for visiting these places on the sabbath; but I was in
Spain to learn the manners and customs of the people,
and excused myself on this plea. Monday was the
first day of November, which is All Saints’ Day. Not
a shop was open. The streets were almost deserted;
and there was nothing like play to be seen, even among
the children. It was like Sunday at home or in
London, though perhaps even more silent and subdued.
On this day the people visit the cemeteries, and decorate
the tombs and graves of the dead with wreaths
of flowers and _immortelles_. I pointed out to you the
cemetery in the rear of the _Museo_. I visited it on
that day; and it was really a very solemn sight.”

“I wish I had visited the cemetery,” said Sheridan.

“I am sorry you did not; but I did not think of it
at the time we were near it. It is a garden surrounded
by high walls, like parts of those we saw in
Italy. In this wall are built a great many niches deep
enough to receive a coffin, the lid of which, in Spain,
as in Washington, is _dos d’âne_, or roof–shaped; and the
cell is made like it at the top. Besides these catacombs,
there are graves and tombs. As in Paris these
are often seen with flowers, the toys of children, portraits,
and other mementos of the departed, laid upon
them.”

“I saw a funeral in Geronimo Street yesterday,”
added the captain. “The hearse was an open one,
drawn by four horses covered with black velvet. I
followed it to a church, and saw the service, which was
not different from what I have seen at home. When
the procession started for the grave, it consisted mostly
of _berlinas_; and its length increased with every rod it
advanced.”

“I was told, that, when a person dies in Spain, the
friends of the family send in a supply of cooked food,
on the supposition that the bereaved are in no condition
to attend to such matters,” continued the doctor.
“But it is light enough now for us to see the scenery.”

The country was flat and devoid of interest at first;
but it began to improve as the train approached Aranjuez,
where the kings have a royal residence, which
the party were to visit on the return from Toledo.

“What river is that, Dr. Winstock?” asked Murray.

“_El Tajo_,” replied the doctor, with a smile.

“Never heard of it,” added Murray.

“There you labor under one of the disadvantages of
a person who does not understand the language of the
country in which he is travelling; for you are as
familiar with the English name of this river as you are
with that of the Rhine,” replied the doctor.

“It is the Tagus,” added Sheridan. “I know that
Toledo is on this river.”

“Who could suspect that _El Tah–hoe_ was the Tagus?”
queried Murray.

“You would if you knew Spanish.”

“There is a Spanish _caballero_, mounted on a mule,”
said Murray, calling the attention of the party to a
peasant who was sitting sideways on his steed.

“All of them ride that way,” added Sheridan.

“Not all of them do, for there is a fellow straddling
his donkey behind two big panniers,” interposed the
surgeon.

The train continued to follow the river till it reached
Toledo. The students got out of the cars, and were
directed to assemble near the station in full view of the
ancient city. The day was clear and mild, so that it
was no hardship to stand in the open air, and listen to
the description of the city given by Professor Mapps.

 “Toledo, as you can see for yourselves, is situated on a hill, or a
 series of hills, which rise to a considerable height above the rest of
 the country. Some of the old Spanish historians say that the city was
 founded soon after the creation of the world; but better authorities
 say it was begun by the Romans in the year B.C. 126, which makes it old
 enough to satisfy the reasonable vanity of the citizens of the place. Of
 course it was captured by the Moors, and recaptured by the Spaniards;
 and many of the buildings, and the bridge you see are the work of the
 Romans and the Moors. Under the Goths, in the seventh century, Toledo
 became very wealthy and prosperous, and in its best days is said to have
 had a population of a quarter of a million. It was made the capital of
 Spain in 567. Early in the eighth century the Moors obtained possession
 of the city, and made many improvements. In 1085, after a terrible
 siege, Alfonso VI. of Castile took it from the Moors, and it was again
 made the capital. The historians who carry the founding of Toledo almost
 back to the flood say that the Jews fled from Jerusalem, when it was
 captured by Nebuchadnezzar, to this city. Be this as it may, there were
 a great many Hebrews in Toledo in ancient days. They were an industrious
 people, and they became very wealthy. This people have been the butt
 of the Christians in many lands, and they were so here. They were
 persecuted, and their property confiscated; and it is said that the Jews
 avenged their wrongs by opening the gates of the city to the Moors; and
 then when the Moors served them in the same way, and despoiled them of
 their wealth, they admitted the army of Alfonso VI. by the same means.
 It has since been retained by the Christians. It was the capital and
 the ecclesiastic head of the nation. The archbishops of Toledo were
 immensely wealthy and influential.

 “One of them was Ximenes, afterward cardinal, the Richelieu of Spain,
 and one of the most famous characters of history. He was the powerful
 minister of Ferdinand the Catholic, and the regent of the kingdom in
 the absence of Charles V. He was a priest who continually mortified his
 body, and at the same time a statesman of the highest order. He was the
 confessor of Isabella I. When he was made archbishop of Toledo and head
 of the Church in Spain, he refused to accept the high honor till he was
 compelled to do so by the direct command of the pope. When he appeared
 at court in his monkish robes, looking more like a half–starved hermit
 than the primate of Spain, the courtiers laughed at him; but he meekly
 bore the sneers and the scoffs of the light–hearted. He was required
 by the pope to change his style of living, and make it conform to his
 high position. He obeyed the order; but he wore the haircloth shirt
 and frock of the order to which he belonged under his robes of purple.
 In the elegant apartments of his palace, he slept on the floor with a
 log of wood for a pillow. He led an expedition against the Moors into
 Africa, and captured Oran. As regent he maintained the authority of the
 king against the grandees, and told them they were to obey the king and
 not to deliberate over his command. By his personal will he subdued the
 great nobles.

 “The Moors brought to Toledo, from Damascus, the art of tempering
 steel for sword–blades; and weapons from either of these cities have
 a reputation all over the world. There is a manufactory of swords and
 other similar wares; and, while some contend that the blades made here
 are superior to any others, more insist that those made in England are
 just as good. When the capital was removed to Valladolid, Toledo began
 to decline; and now it has only fifteen thousand inhabitants. In the
 days that are past, the Jews and the Moors have been driven out of Spain
 to a degree that has retarded the prosperity of the country; for both
 the Hebrews and the Moslems were industrious and thriving races, and
 added greatly to the wealth of the nation. In religion Ferdinand and
 Isabella would be considered bigots and fanatics in our time; and their
 statesmanship would confound the modern student of political economy.
 But they did not live in our time; and we are grateful to them for the
 good they did, regardless of their religious or political views.

 “The large square structure which crowns the hill is the _Alcazar_, or
 palace. It is in ruins, but what remains of it is what was rebuilt for
 the fourth time. It was occupied by the Moorish and Gothic kings, as
 well as by those of Castile and Leon. The principal sight of the city
 is the cathedral. It is three hundred and seventy–three feet long, and
 a little less than two hundred in width. The first church on the spot
 was begun in the year 587. Among the relics you saw in the Escurial was
 the entire skeleton of St. Eugenius, the first Archbishop of Toledo, who
 was buried at St. Denis; and his remains were given to Philip II. by the
 King of France. He presided at a council held in the original cathedral,
 which was also visited, Dec. 18, 666, by the Virgin (the hour of the
 day is not given); and it appears that she made one or more visits at
 other times. The present church was begun in 1227, and completed in
 1493, the year after the discovery of America. One of its chapels is
 called the Capilla Mosarabe; and perhaps a word about it may interest
 you. When the Moors captured the city, certain Christians remained, and
 were allowed to enjoy their own religion; and, being separated from
 those of the faith, they had a ritual which was peculiarly their own.
 When the city was restored to the Christians, these people preferred
 to retain the prayer–book, the customs and traditions, which had come
 down to them from their own past. The clergy objected, and all efforts
 to make them adopt the Roman forms were useless. A violent dispute
 arose, which threatened serious consequences. It was finally decided to
 settle the question after the manner of the times, by single combat;
 and each party selected its champion. They fought, and the victory was
 with the Mosarabic side. But the king Alfonso VI. and the clergy were
 not satisfied, and, declaring that the means of deciding the case had
 been cruel and impious, proposed another trial. This time it was to be
 the ordeal by fire. A heap of fagots was lighted in the _Zocodover_,—the
 public square near the cathedral,—and the Roman and the Mosarabic
 prayer–books were committed to the flames. The Roman book was burned to
 ashes, while the Toledan version remained unconsumed in the fire. There
 was no way to get around this miraculous decision; and the people of the
 city retained their ritual. When Ximenes became archbishop he seems to
 have had more regard than his predecessors for the old ritual, called
 the Apostolic Mass; and he not only ordained an order of priests for
 this especial service, but built the chapel I have mentioned. I will
 not detain you any longer, though there is much more that might be said
 about this interesting city.”

Though the walk was rather long, the omnibuses were
scarce, and most of the students were obliged to foot it
into the city. The doctor and his travelling pupils preferred
this, because they wished to look at the bridge
and the towers on the way. They spent some time on
the former in looking down into the rapid river, and
in studying the structures at either end. The original
bridge was built by the Romans, rebuilt by the Moors,
and repaired by the Spaniards.

“You have been in the East enough to know that the
Orientals are fond of baths and other water luxuries.
The Jews brought to Toledo some knowledge of the
hydraulics of the Moslems; and they built an immense
water–wheel in the river, which Murray says was ninety
cubits—at least one hundred and thirty–five feet—high,
to force the water up the hill to the city through
pipes,” said the doctor, as he pointed out the ruins of
a building used for this purpose.

“I said it was ninety cubits high?” exclaimed Murray.

“I ought to have said ‘Ford,’ since he prepared the
hand–book of Spain that goes under your name.”

“I accept the amendment,” laughed Murray,

“And now there are no water–works in Toledo,
except such as you see crossing the bridge before us,”
added the surgeon, as he indicated a donkey with one
keg fixed in a saddle, like a saw–horse, and two others
slung on each side.

The party passed through the _Puerta del Sol_, which
is an old and gloomy tower, with a gateway through it.
It is a Moorish structure; and, after examining it, they
continued up the slope which winds around the hill to
the top, and reached the square to which the professor
had alluded. To the students the city presented a dull,
deserted, desolate, and inhospitable appearance. It
looked as though the people had got enough of the
place, and had moved out of town. Though full of
treasures for the student of architecture and of antiquity,
it had but little interest to progressive Young
America.

The party went at once to the cathedral. There is
no outside view of it except over the tops of the
houses, though portions of it may be seen in different
places. The interior was grand to look upon, but too
grand to describe; and we shall report only some of
Dr. Winstock’s talks to his pupils.

“This is the _Puerta del Niño Perdido_, or the Gate of
the Lost Child,” said he as they entered the church.
“The story is the foundation of many a romance of
the olden time. The clergy accused the wealthy Hebrews
of crucifying, as they did the Saviour, a Christian
boy, in order to use his heart in the passover service
as a charm against the Inquisition. The gate takes
the name from a fresco near it, representing the scene
when the lost child was missed. The Jews were charged
with the terrible deed, and plundered of their wealth,
which was the whole object of the persecution.”

The party walked through the grand structure,
looked into the choir in the middle, where a service
was in progress, and passed through several chapels,
stopping a considerable time in the _Capilla Mayor_,
where are monuments of some of the ancient kings
and other great men.

“This is the tomb of Cardinal Mendoza,” said the
doctor. “He was an historian, a scholar, and, like
Ximenes, a statesman and a warrior. The marble–work
in the rear of the altar cost two hundred thousand
ducats, or six times as many dollars.”

“One hundred and twenty schoolhouses at ten
thousand dollars apiece packed into that thing!”
exclaimed Murray.

“And Mr. Ford calls it a fricassee of marble!”
laughed the doctor, as they walked into the next chapel.
“This is the _Capilla de Santiago_. Do you know who he
was?”

“Of course we do. He was the patron saint of
Spain,—St. James, one of the apostles,” replied Sheridan.

“Do you remember what became of him?”

“He suffered martyrdom under Herod Agrippa,”
answered the captain.

“The Spaniards carry his history somewhat farther
than that event. As they wanted a distinguished
patron, and Rome had appropriated Peter and Paul,
they contented themselves with James the Elder, the son
of Zebedee, and the brother of John. When he was
dead, his body was conveyed by some miraculous agency
to Jaffa, where it embarked in a boat for Barcelona,
the legend informs us. Instead of going on shore, like
a peaceable corpse, it continued on its voyage, following
the coast of Spain, through the Strait of Gibraltar,
to the shore of Galicia, where it made a landing at
a place called Padron; or rather the dead–boat got
aground there. The body was found by some fishermen,
who had the grace to carry it to a cave, where, as
if satisfied with its long voyage made in seven days,
beating the P. and O. Steamers by a week, it rested
peaceably for eight hundred years. At the end of this
long period, it seems to have become restless again,
and to have caused certain telegraphic lights to be
exhibited over the cave. They were seen by a monk,
who informed the bishop of the circumstance. He
appears to have understood the meaning of the lights,
and examined the cave. He found the body, and knew
it to be that of St. James; but he has wisely failed to
put on record the means by which he identified it. A
church was built to contain the tomb of the patron
saint; but it was afterwards removed to the church of
Santiago, twelve miles distant.”

The party crossed the church, and entered the
Chapel of San Ildefonso. This saint, a primate of
Toledo, was an especial champion of the Virgin, and
so won her favor, that she came down from heaven,
and seated herself in his chair. She remained during
matins, chanting the service, and at its close placed
the church robes on his shoulders. The primate’s successor
undertook to sit down in this chair, but was
driven out by angels, which was rather an imputation
upon his sanctity. The Virgin repeated the visit several
times. St. Ildefonso’s body was stolen by the
Moors, but it was recovered by a miracle. The sacred
vestment the Virgin had placed upon his back was
taken away at the same time; but no miracle seems to
have been interposed to restore it, though it is said to
be in Oviedo, invisible to mortal eyes. In another
part of the edifice is the very stone on which the
Virgin stepped when she came first to the church. It
is enclosed by small iron bars, but the fingers may be
inserted so as to press it; and holes are worn into it
from the frequent touchings of the pilgrims to this
shrine.

“Here are the portraits of all the cardinals, from St.
Eugenio down to the present time,” said the doctor as
they entered the Chapter House. “Cardinal Albornez
died in Rome, and the pope desired to send his remains
to Toledo. As this was in 1364, there was no regular
line of steamers, or an express company, to attend to
the transportation: so he offered plenary indulgences
to those who would undertake the mission of conveying
the body to its distant resting–place. There were
plenty of poor people who could not purchase such
favors for their souls; and they were glad of the job
to bear the cardinal on their shoulders from town to
town till they arrived here.”

“Where is the chapel the professor told us about?”
asked Sheridan.

“We will go to that now.”

This chapel, though very rich in church treasures,
and one of the most venerated in the cathedral as
built to preserve the ancient ritual, contained nothing
that engaged the attention of the students, and Mr.
Mapps had already told its story. They hardly looked
at the image of the Virgin, which is dressed in magnificent
costume, covered with gold and jewels, when
it is borne in procession on Corpus Christi Day.

“I have seen enough of it,” said Murray, as they
left the cathedral, and walked to the _Alcazar_.

The old palace was only a reminder of what had
been; but the view from its crumbling walls was the
best thing about it. The party decided not to visit the
sword–factory, which is two miles out of the city; and
they went next to the church of _San Juan de los Reyes_.
It was a court chapel, and was erected by the Catholic
king to commemorate a victory. It is Gothic; but the
chains that are hung over the outside of it were all that
challenged the interest of the students.

“Those chains were the votive offerings of captives
who were released when Granada was taken by Ferdinand
and Isabella,” said the doctor, when his pupils
began to express their wonder. “There are some very
fine carvings and frescos in this church.”

“I don’t care for them,” yawned Murray: “I will
wait here while you and Sheridan go in.” But the
captain did not care to go in; and they continued their
walk to _Santa Maria la Blanca_ and _El Transito_, two
churches which had formerly been synagogues. They
were very highly ornamented; but by this time the students
wanted their dinner more than to see the elaborate
workmanship of the Jews or the Moors. They
were tired too; for Toledo with its up and down streets
is not an easy place to get about in. Some of the boys
said it reminded them of Genoa; but it is more like
parts of Constantinople, with its steep hills and Moorish
houses.

The party dined in various places in the city; and at
two o’clock they took the train for Aranjuez, and
arrived there in an hour.

“The late queen used to live here three months of
the year,” said the doctor, as they walked from the
station to the palace. “The town is at the junction of
the Jarama and the Tagus, and it is really a very pretty
place. There is plenty of water. Charles V. was the
first of the kings of Spain to make his residence at
Aranjuez. A great deal of work has been done here
since his time, by his successors.”

The students walked through the gardens, and went
through the palace. Perhaps the camels kept here
were more interesting to the young gentlemen, gorged
with six months’ sight–seeing in all the countries of
Europe, than any thing else they saw at the summer
residence of the kings of Spain.

At the station there is a very fair hotel with restaurant,
where the party had supper. But they had four
hours of weary waiting before the train for _Ciudad Real_
would arrive; and most of them tried to sleep, for it
had been a long day.

“Better be here than at the junction of this road
with that to Toledo,” said the doctor, as he fixed himself
for a nap. “The last time I was here I did not
understand it; and, when I came from Toledo, I got off
the train at the junction, which is Castillejo, ten miles
from Aranjuez.”

“I noticed the place when we went down this morning,”
replied Sheridan. “The station is little better
than a shed, and there is no town there.”

“The train was late; and I had to wait there without
my supper from eight o’clock till after midnight. It
was cold, and there was no fire. I was never more uncomfortable
for four hours in my life. The stations in
Spain are built to save money, and not for the comfort
of the passengers, at least in the smaller places. But
we had better go to sleep if we can; for we have to
keep moving for nearly twenty–four hours at the next
stretch.”

Not many of the party could sleep, tired as they
were, till they took the train at eleven o’clock. The
compartments were heated with hot–water vessels, or
rather the feet were heated by them. The students
stowed themselves away as well as they could; and
soon, without much encouragement to do so, they were
buried in slumber.



CHAPTER XV.

TROUBLE IN THE RUNAWAY CAMP.


“What are you running for?” shouted Bill Stout,
as Raimundo and Bark Lingall ran ahead of
him after the party landed from the felucca. “We are
all right now.”

Bill could not quite get rid of the idea that he was the
leader of the expedition, as he intended to be from
the time when he began to make his wicked plans
for the destruction of the Tritonia. He had the vanity
to believe that he was born to command, and not to
obey; and such are generally the very worst of leaders.

“Never mind him, Lingall,” said the second master.
“When we get to the top of this rising ground we can
see where we are.”

“I am satisfied to follow your lead,” replied Bark.

“If our plans are spoiled, it will be by that fellow,”
added Raimundo.

But in a few minutes more he halted on the summit
of a little hill, with Bark still at his side. Bill was
some distance behind; and he was evidently determined
to have his own way, without regard to the
wishes of the second master. On the rising ground,
the lights revealed the position of the city; but the
fugitives looked with more interest, for the moment, at
the sea. Raimundo had run when he landed, because
he saw that the lay of the land would conceal the movements
of the felucca from him if he remained where he
had come on shore. Perhaps, too, he considered it best
to put a reasonable distance between himself and the
dangerous boatman. On the eminence they could distinctly
see the felucca headed away from the shore in
the direction from which she had come when they were
on board.

“I was afraid the villain might be treacherous, after
all,” said Raimundo. “If he had headed into the port
of Tarragona, it would not have been safe for us to go
there.”

“What’s your hurry?” demanded Bill Stout, coming
up at this moment. “You act as though you were
scared out of your wits.”

“Shut up, Bill Stout!” said Bark, disgusted with his
companion in crime. “If you are going to get up a
row at every point we make, we may as well go back
to the Tritonia, kiss the rod, and be good boys.”

“I haven’t made any row,” protested Bill. “I
couldn’t see what you were running for, when no one
was after you.”

“Raimundo knows what he is about; and, while the
thing is going along very well, you set to yelling, so as
to let the fellow know where we were, if he took it into
his head to follow us.”

“Raimundo may know what he is about,” snarled
Bill; “but I want to know what he is about too, if I
am to take part in this business.”

“You will not know from me,” added Raimundo
haughtily. “I shall not stop to explain my plans to a
coward and an ignoramus every time I make a move.
We are in Spain; and the country is big enough for all
of us. I did not invite you to come with me; and I
am not going to be trammelled by you.”

“You are a great man, Mr. Raimundo; but I want
you to understand that you are not on the quarter–deck
of the Tritonia just now; and I have something to say,
as well as you,” replied Bill.

“That’s all! I don’t want to hear another word,”
continued Raimundo. “We may as well part company
here and now as at any other time and place.”

“Now you can see what you have done, Bill,” said
Bark reproachfully.

“Well, what have I done? I had as lief be officered
on board of the vessel as here, when we are on a time,”
answered Bill.

“All right; you may go where you please,” added
Bark angrily. “I am not going about with any such
fellow as you are. If I should get into trouble, you
would lay back, and let me fight it out alone.”

“Do you mean to say, Bark Lingall, that you will
desert me, and go off with that spoony of an officer?”
demanded Bill, taken all aback by what his friend had
said.

“I do mean to say it; and, more than that, I will
stick to it,” said Bark firmly. “You are both a coward
and a fool. Before we are out of the first danger, you
get your back up about nothing, and make a row.
Mr. Raimundo has been a gentleman, and behaved
like a brave fellow. If it hadn’t been for him, we
should have been robbed of all our money, and perhaps
have had our throats cut besides.”

“But he got us into the scrape,” protested Bill.
“He hired that cut–throat to take us to this place without
saying a word to us about the business. I knew
that fellow was a rascal, and would just as lief cut a
man’s throat as eat his dinner.”

“You knew what he was, did you?”

“To be sure I did. He looked like a villain; and
I would not have trusted myself half a mile from the
shore with him without a revolver in my pocket,”
retorted Bill, who felt safe enough now that he was on
shore.

“I don’t care to hear any more of this,” interposed
the second master. “It must be half–past seven by
this time, and I am going to hurry up to the town. I
looked at an old Bradshaw on board, while I was
making up my plans, and I noticed that the night
trains generally leave at about nine o’clock. There
may be one from this place.”

“But where are you going?” asked Bark.

“It makes no manner of difference to me where I
go, if I only get as far away from Barcelona as possible,”
replied Raimundo. “The police may have
received a despatch, ordering them to arrest us at this
place.”

“Do you believe they have such an order?” asked
Bark, with deep interest.

“I do not believe it; but it may be, for all that. I
am confident no one saw the felucca take us off those
rocks. I feel tolerably safe. But, when Filipe gets
back to Barcelona, he may tell where he took us; and
some one will be on my track in Tarragona as early as
the first train from the north arrives here.”

Raimundo walked towards the town, and Bark still
kept by his side. Bill followed, for he had no intention
of being left alone by his companions. He
thought it was treason on the part of Bark to think of
such a thing as deserting him. He felt that he had
been the leader of the enterprise up to the time he
had got into the boat with the second master; and
that he had conducted Bark out of their prison, and
out of the slavery of the vessel. It would be rank
ingratitude for his fellow–conspirator to turn against
him under such circumstances; and he was surprised
that Bark did not see it in that light. As for the
second master, he did not want any thing more of
him; he did not wish to travel with him, or to have
any thing to do with him. He was an officer of the
Tritonia, one of the tyrants against whom he had
rebelled; and as such he hated him. The consciousness
that he had behaved like a poltroon in the presence
of the officer, while Bark had been a lion in
bravery, did not help the case at all. Raimundo
despised him, and took no pains to conceal his sentiments.

All Bill Stout wanted was to roam over the country
with Bark. In the boat he had imagined the “good
times” they would have when free from restraint.
They could drink and smoke, and visit the places of
amusement in Spain, while the rest of the fellows were
listening to lectures on geography and history, and visiting
old churches. His idea of life and enjoyment was
very low indeed.

After walking for half an hour in the direction of the
nearest lights, they reached the lower part of the town;
and the second master concluded that the railroad
station must be in this section. He inquired in the
street, and found they were quite near it. He was also
told that a train would leave for Alicante and Madrid
at thirty–five minutes past eight. It was only eight
then; and, seeing a store with “_A la Barcelona_” on
its sign, he knew it was a clothing–store, and the party
entered it. Raimundo bought a long cape coat which
entirely concealed his uniform. Bark and Bill purchased
overcoats, each according to his taste, that
covered up their nautical costume in part, though they
did not hide their seaman’s trousers. At another shop
they obtained caps that replaced their uniform headpieces.

With their appearance thus changed, they repaired to
the station, where Raimundo bought tickets to Valencia.
This is a seaport town, one hundred and sixty–two
miles from Tarragona. Raimundo was going there
because the train went there. His plans for the future
were not definitely arranged; but he did not wish to
dissolve his connection with the academy squadron.
He intended to return to his ship as soon as he could
safely do so, which he believed would be when the vessels
sailed from Lisbon for the “isles of the sea;” but
in this connection he was troubled about the change in
the programme which the principal had introduced
the day before, of which Hugo had informed him. If the
American Prince was to convey the Josephines and the
Tritonias to Lisbon, and bring back the Princes,—for
the several ships’ companies were called by these names,—it
was not probable that the squadron would go to
Lisbon. All hands would then have visited Portugal
and there would be no need of going there again.
Raimundo concluded that the fleet would sail on its
Atlantic voyage from Cadiz, which would save going
three hundred miles to the northward in the middle of
winter.

“Do you want first or second class tickets?” asked
Raimundo, when they stood before the ticket–office.

“A second class is good enough for me,” replied
Bill.

“What class do you take?” asked Bark.

“I shall go first class, because I think it will be
safer,” replied Raimundo. “We shall not meet so
many people.”

“Then get me a first class,” added Bark.

“Two first class and one second,” repeated the
second master.

“I’m not going alone,” snarled Bill. “Get me a
first class.”

The tickets were procured; and the party took their
places in the proper compartment, which they had all
to themselves. Bill Stout was vexed again; for, small
as the matter of the tickets was, he had once more
been overruled by the second master. He felt as
though he had no influence, instead of being the leader
of the party as he aspired to be. He was cross and
discontented. He was angry with Bark for thinking of
such a thing as deserting him. He was in just the
mood to make another fuss; and he made one.

“I think it is about time for us to settle our accounts
with you, Mr. Raimundo,” said Bark, when they were
seated in the compartment. “We owe you a good deal
by this time.”

“_Mr._ Raimundo!” exclaimed Bill, with a heavy
emphasis on the handle to the name. “Why don’t you
call me Mr. Stout, Bark?”

“Because I have not been in the habit of doing so,”
replied Bark coldly.

“We are not on board the ship now; and I think we
might as well stop toadying to anybody,” growled Bill.

“About the accounts, Mr. Raimundo,” continued
Bark, taking no further notice of his ill–natured companion.
“How much were the tickets?”

“Ninety–two _reales_ each,” replied Raimundo. “That
is four dollars and sixty cents.”

“You paid for the boat and the provisions,” added
Bark. “We will make an equal division of the whole
expense.”

“I paid five hundred _reales_ for the boat, and sixty
for the provisions.”

“You paid more than you agreed to for the boat,”
interposed Bill sulkily. “You are not going to throw
my money away like that, I can tell you.”

“I hired the boat for my own use, and I am willing
to pay the whole of the bill for it,” replied Raimundo
with dignity.

“That’s the sort of fellow you are, Bill Stout!”
exclaimed Bark indignantly.—“No matter, Mr. Raimundo;
if Bill is too mean to pay his share, I will pay
it for him. You shall pay no more than one–third anyhow.”

“I am willing to pay my fair share,” said Bill, more
disturbed than ever to find Bark against him every
time. “Then three dollars for that lunch was a swindle.”

“I had to take what I could get under the circumstances,”
added Raimundo; “but you drank most of
the wine.”

“I was not consulted about ordering it,” growled
Bill.

“If there ever was an unreasonable fellow on the
face of the footstool, you are the one, Bill Stout!”
retorted Bark vigorously. “I have had enough of you.—How
much is the whole bill for each, Mr. Raimundo?”

“An equal division makes it two hundred and
seventy–eight _reales_ and a fraction. That is thirteen
dollars and sixty cents.”

“But my money is in sovereigns.”

“Two and a half pence make a _real_. Can you figure
that in your head?”

Bark declined to do the sum in his head; but, standing
up under the dim light in the top of the compartment,
he ciphered it out on the back of an old letter.
The train had been in motion for some time, and it was
not easy to make figures; but at last he announced his
result.

“Two pounds and eighteen shillings, lacking a
penny,” said he. “Two shares will be five pounds and
sixteen shillings.”

“That is about what I had made it in my head,”
added Raimundo.

“Here are six sovereigns for Bill’s share and my
own,” continued Bark, handing him the gold.

“You needn’t pay that swindle for me,” interposed
Bill. “I shall not submit to having my money thrown
away like that.”

“Of course I shall not take it under these circumstances,”
replied the second master.

“I am willing to pay for the boat and the provisions,”
said Bill, yielding a part of the point.

Bark took no notice of him, but continued to press
the money upon Raimundo; and he finally consented
to take it on condition that a division of the loss
should be made in the future if Bill did not pay his
full share.

“You want four shillings back: here are five _pesetas_,
which just make it,” added Raimundo.

“Of course I shall pay you whatever you are out,
Bark,” said Bill, backing entirely out of his position,
which he had taken more to be ugly than because he
objected to the bill. “But I don’t like this swindle.
Here’s three sovereigns.”

“You need not pay it if you don’t want to. I did
not mean that Mr. Raimundo should be cheated out of
the money,” replied Bark.

“Stout,” said Raimundo, rising from his seat, “this
is not the first time, nor even the tenth, that you have
insulted me to–day. I will have nothing more to do
with you. You may buy your own tickets, and pay
your own bills; and we will part company as soon as
we leave this train.”

“I think I can take care of myself without any help
from you,” retorted Bill.—“Here is your money,
Bark.”

“I won’t take it,” replied Bark.

“Why not?”

“You have insulted Mr. Raimundo ever since we
started from Barcelona; and, after you say you have
been swindled, I won’t touch your money.”

“Are you going back on me, after all I have done
for you?” demanded Bill.

“What have you done for me?” asked Bark indignantly;
for this was a new revelation to him.

“I got you out of the Tritonia; didn’t I?”

“No matter: we will not jaw about any thing so
silly as that. I won’t touch your money till you have
apologized to Mr. Raimundo.”

“When I apologize to _Mr._ Raimundo, let me know
it, will you?” replied Bill, as he returned the sovereigns
to his pocket, and coiled himself away in the corner.
“That’s not my style.”

Nothing more was said; and, after a while, all of
the party went to sleep. But Bill Stout did not sleep
well, for he was too ugly to be entirely at rest. He
was awake most of the night; but, in the early morning,
he dropped off again. At seven o’clock the train
arrived at Valencia. Bill was still asleep. Raimundo
got out of the car; and Bark was about to wake his
fellow–conspirator, when the second master interposed:—

“Don’t wake him, Lingall, if you please; but come
with me. You can return in a moment.”

Bark got out of the carriage.

“I wish to leave before he wakes,” said Raimundo.
“I will go no farther with him.”

“Leave him here?” queried Bark.

“I will not even speak to him again,” added the
second master. “Of course, I shall leave you to do as
you please; though I should be glad to have you go
with me, for you have proved yourself to be a plucky
fellow and a gentleman. As it is impossible for me
to endure Stout’s company any longer, I shall have to
leave you, if you stick to him.”

“I shall not stick to him,” protested Bark. “He is
nothing but a hog,—one hundred pounds of pork.”

Bark had decided to leave Bill as soon as he could,
and now was his time. They took an omnibus for the
_Fonda del Cid_. They had not been gone more than
five minutes, before a porter woke Bill Stout, who
found that he was alone. He understood it perfectly.



CHAPTER XVI.

BILL STOUT AS A TOURIST.


Bill Stout indulged in some very severe reflections
upon the conduct of his fellow–conspirator
when he found that he was alone in the compartment
where he had spent the night. The porter who woke
him told him very respectfully (he was a first–class
passenger), in good Spanish for a man in his position,
that the train was to be run out of the station. Bill
couldn’t understand him, but he left the car.

“Where are the fellows that came with me?” he
asked, turning to the porter; but the man shook his
head, and smiled as blandly as though the runaway had
given him a _peseta_.

Bill was not much troubled with bashfulness; and he
walked about the station, accosting a dozen persons
whom he met; but not one of them seemed to know
a word of English.

“_No hablo Ingles_,” was the uniform reply of all.
One spoke to him in French; but, though Bill had
studied this language, he had not gone far enough to
be able to speak even a few words of it. He went into
the street, and a crowd of carriage–drivers saluted
him.

“Hotel,” said he, satisfied by this time that it was
of no use to talk English to anybody in Spain.

As this word is known to all languages, he got on so
far very well.

“_Hotel Villa de Madrid!_” shouted one of the drivers.

Though Bill’s knowledge of geography was very
limited, he had heard of Madrid, and he identified this
word in the speech of the man. He bowed to him to
indicate that he was ready to go to the hotel he named.
He was invited to take a seat in a _tartana_, a two–wheeled
vehicle not much easier than a tip–cart, and driven to
the hotel. Bill did not look like a very distinguished
guest, for he wore the garb of a common sailor when he
took off his overcoat. He had not even put on his best
rig, as he did not go ashore in regular form. He spoke
to the porter who received him at the door, in English,
thinking it was quite proper for those about a hotel to
speak all languages. But this man seemed to be no
better linguist than the rest of the Spaniards; and he
made no reply.

The guest was conducted to the hall where the landlord,
or the manager of the hotel, addressed him in
Spanish, and Bill replied in English.

“_Habla V. Frances?_” asked the manager.

“I don’t _hablo_ any thing but English,” replied Bill,
beginning to be disgusted with his ill–success in finding
any one who could understand him.

“_Parlez–vous Français?_” persisted the manager.

“No. I don’t _parlez–vous_.”

“_Parlate voi Italiano?_”

“No: I tell you I don’t speak any thing but English,”
growled Bill.

“_Sprechen Sie Deutsch?_”

“No; no Dutch.”

The manager shrugged his shoulders, and evidently
felt that he had done enough, having addressed the
guest in four languages.

“Two fellows—no comee here?” continued Bill,
trying his luck with pigeon English.

Of course the manager shook his head at this absurd
lingo; and Bill was obliged to give up in despair. The
manager called a servant, and sent him out; and the
guest hoped that something might yet happen. He
seated himself on a sofa, and waited for the waters to
move.

“I want some breakfast,” said Bill when he had
waited half an hour; and as he spoke he pointed to his
mouth, and worked his teeth, to illustrate his argument.

The manager took out his watch, and pointed to the
“X” upon the dial, to indicate that the meal would be
ready at that hour. A little later the servant came in
with another man, who proved to be an English–speaking
citizen of Valencia. He was a _valet de place_, or
guide.

With his aid Bill ascertained that “two young fellows”
had not been to the Hotel Villa de Madrid that
morning. He also obtained a room, and some coffee
and bread to last him till breakfast time. When he
had taken his coffee, he went with the man to all the
hotels in the place. It was nearly ten o’clock when he
reached the _Fonda del Cid_. Two young gentlemen, one
of them an officer, had just breakfasted at the hotel,
and left for Grao, the port of Valencia, two miles distant,
where they were to embark in a steamer which
was to sail for Oran at ten. Bill had not the least idea
where Oran was; and, when he asked his guide, he was
astonished to learn that it was in Africa, a seaport of
Algeria. Then he was madder than ever; for he would
have been very glad to take a trip to Africa, and see
something besides churches and palaces. He dwelt
heavily upon the trick that Bark had played him. It
was ten o’clock then, and it would not be possible to
reach Grao before half–past ten. He could try it; the
steamer might not sail as soon as advertised: they
were often detained.

Bill did try it, but the steamer was two miles at sea
when he reached the port. He engaged the guide for
the day, after an effort to beat him down in his price of
six _pesetas_. He went back to the hotel, and ate his
breakfast. There was plenty of _Val de Peñas_ wine on
the table, and he drank all he wanted. Then he went to
his room to take a nap before he went out to see the
sights of the place. Instead of sleeping an hour as he
intended, he did not wake till three o’clock in the afternoon.
The wine had had its effect upon him. He
found the guide waiting for him in the hall below. The
man insisted that he should go to the cathedral; and
when they had visited that it was dinner–time.

“How much do I owe you now?” asked Bill, when he
came to settle with the guide.

“Six _pesetas_,” replied the man. “That is the price
I told you.”

“But I have not had you but half a day: from eleven
till three you did not do any thing for me,” blustered
Bill in his usual style.

“But I was ready to go with you, and waited all that
time for you,” pleaded the guide.

“Here is four _pesetas_, and that is one more than you
have earned,” added Bill, tendering him the silver.

The man refused to accept the sum; and they had
quite a row about it. Finally the guide appealed to the
manager of the hotel, who promptly decided that six
_pesetas_ was the amount due the man. Bill paid it
under protest, but added that he wanted the guide the
next day.

“I shall go with you no more,” replied the man, as
he put the money into his pocket. “I work for gentlemen
only.”

“I will pay you for all the time you go with me,”
protested Bill; but the guide was resolute, and left the
hotel.

The next morning Bill used his best endeavors to
obtain another guide; but for a time he was unable to
make anybody comprehend what he wished. An Englishman
who spoke Spanish, and was a guest at the
hotel, helped him out at breakfast, and told the manager
what the young man wanted.

“I will not send for a guide for him,” replied the
manager; and then he explained to the tourist in what
manner Bill had treated his valet the day before, all of
which the gentleman translated to him.

But we cannot follow Bill in all his struggles with
the language, or in all his wanderings about Valencia.
He paid his bill at the hotel _Villa de Madrid_, and went
to another. On his way he bought a new suit of
clothes, and discarded for the present his uniform,
which attracted attention wherever he was. He went
to the _Fonda del Cid_ next; but he could not obtain a
guide who spoke English: the only one they ever
called in was engaged to an English party for a week.
The manager spoke English, but he was seldom in the
house. In some of the shops they spoke English; but
Bill was almost as much alone as though he had been
on a deserted island. The days wore heavy on his
hands; and about all he could do was to drink _Val de
Peñas_, and sleep it off. He wanted to leave Valencia,
but knew not where to go. He desired to get out of
Spain; and he had tried to get the run of the English
steamers; but as he could not read the posters, or
often find any one to read them for him, he had no
success.

He was heartily tired of the place, and even more
disgusted than he had been on board of the Tritonia.
He desired to go to England, where he could speak
the language of the country; but no vessel for England
came along, so far as he could ascertain. One day an
English gentleman arrived at the hotel; and Bill got up
a talk with him, as he did with everybody who could
speak his own language. He told him he wanted to
get to England; and the tourist advised him to cross
Spain and Portugal by rail, and take a steamer at Lisbon,
where one sailed every week for Southampton or
Liverpool, and sometimes two or three a week.

Bill adopted this suggestion, and in the afternoon
started for Lisbon. He had been nearly a week in
Valencia, and the change was very agreeable to him.
He found a gentleman who spoke English, in the
compartment with him; and he got along without any
trouble till he reached Alcazar, where his travelling
friend changed cars for Madrid. But, before he left
the train, he told Bill that he was too late to connect
for Lisbon, and that he would have to wait till half–past
one in the afternoon. He could obtain plenty to
eat in the station; but that ten hours of waiting at a
miserable shed of a station was far worse than learning
a lesson in navigation. He was on the high land, only ninety
miles from Madrid, and it was cold in the night.
There was no fire to warm him, and he had to walk to
keep himself comfortable. He could not speak a word
to any person; and, when any one spoke to him, he
had learned to say, “_No hablo._” He had picked up a
few words of Spanish, so that he could get what he
wanted to eat, though his variety was very limited.

In the afternoon he took the train for Ciudad Real,
and arrived there at six o’clock. He was too tired to
go any farther that night; indeed, he was almost sick.
He found an omnibus at the station, and said “Hotel”
to the driver. He felt better in the morning, and
reached the railroad station at six o’clock. As at the
hotel, he gave the ticket–seller a paper and pencil; and
he wrote down in figures the price of a ticket to Badajos,
in _reales_. He had changed his money into _Isabelinos_,
and knew that each was one hundred _reales_. Bill had
improved a good deal in knowledge since he was
thrown on his own resources. He waited till the train
arrived from Madrid. It was quite a long one; but
the conductor seemed to know just where the vacant
seats were, and led him to the last carriage, where he
was assigned a place in a compartment in which four
passengers occupied the corners, and seemed to be all
asleep. The runaway took one of the middle seats.
He only hoped, that, when the daylight came, he might
hear some of his fellow–travellers speak English.
Unfortunately for him, they all spoke this language.
The light in the top of the compartment had gone out,
and the persons in the corners were buried in their
overcoats, so that he could not see them after the
conductor carried his lantern away.

The train started; and Bill, for the want of something
better to do, went to sleep himself. His bed at
the hotel had been occupied by a myriad of “_cosas de
España_” before he got into it; and his slumbers had
been much disturbed. He slept till the sun broke in
through the window of the compartment. He heard his
fellow–travellers conversing in English; and, when he
was fairly awake, he was immediately conscious that a
gentleman who sat in one of the opposite corners was
studying his features. But, as soon as Bill opened his
eyes, it was not necessary for him to study any longer.
The gentleman in the corner was Mr. Lowington,
principal of the academy squadron; and Bill’s solitary
wanderings had come to an end.

The principal knew every student in the fleet; but
Bill’s head had been half concealed, and his dress had
been entirely changed, so that he did not fully identify
him till he opened his eyes, and raised his head. The
other persons in the compartment were Dr. Winstock,
the captain, and the first lieutenant of the Prince.

“Good–morning, Stout,” said Mr. Lowington, as
soon as he was sure that the new–comer was one of
the runaways from the Tritonia.

Of course Bill was taken all aback when he realized
that he was on the train with the ship’s company of
the Prince. But the principal was good–natured, as he
always was; and he smiled as he spoke. Bill had
unwittingly run into the camp of the enemy; and that
smile assured him that he was to be laughed at, in
addition to whatever punishment might be inflicted
upon him; and the laugh, to him, was the worst of it.

“Good–morning, sir,” replied Bill sheepishly; and
he had not the courage to be silent as he desired to be
in that presence.

“Have you had a good time, Stout?” asked Mr.
Lowington.

“Not very good,” answered Bill; and by this time
the eyes of the doctor and his two pupils, who had not
noticed him before, were fixed upon the culprit.

“Where is Lingall?” inquired the principal. “Is
he on the train with you?”

“No, sir: he and Raimundo ran away from me in
Valencia.”

“Raimundo!” exclaimed Mr. Lowington. “Was
he with you?”

“Yes, sir; and they played me a mean trick,” added
Bill, who had not yet recovered from his indignation on
account of his desertion, and was disposed to do his
late associates all the harm he could.

“They ran away from you, as you did from the rest
of us,” laughed the principal, who knew Stout so well
that he could not blame his companions for deserting
him. “Do you happen to know where they have
gone?”

“They left Valencia in a steamer at ten o’clock in
the forenoon;” and Bill recited the particulars of his
search for his late companions, feeling all the time that
he was having some part of his revenge upon them for
their meanness to him.

“But where was the steamer bound?” asked the
principal.

“For Oban,” replied Bill, getting it wrong, as he was
very apt to do with geographical names.

“Oban; that’s in Scotland. No steamer in Valencia
could be bound to Oban,” added Mr. Lowington.

“This place is not in Scotland: it is in Africa,” Bill
explained.

“He means Oran,” suggested Dr. Winstock.

“That’s the place.”

Bill knew nothing in regard to the intended movements
of Raimundo and Bark.

“How happened Raimundo to be with you?” asked
the principal. “He left the Tritonia the night before
we came from Barcelona.”

“No, sir: he did not leave her at all. He was in
the hold all the time.”

As Bill was very willing to tell all he knew about
his fellow–conspirator and the second master,—except
that Bark and himself had tried to set the vessel on
fire,—he related all the details of the escape, and the
trip to Tarragona, including the affray with the boatman.
He told the truth in the main, though he did
not bring out the fact of his own cowardice, or dwell
upon the cause of the quarrel between himself and his
companions.

“And how happened you to be here, and on this
train? Did you know we were on board of it?”
inquired the principal.

“I did not know you were on this train; but I knew
you were over this way somewhere.”

“And you were going to look for us,” laughed Mr.
Lowington, who believed that the fellow’s ignorance
had caused him to blunder into this locality at the
wrong time.

“I was not looking for you, but for the Tritonias,”
replied Bill, who had come to the conclusion that penitence
was his best dodge under the circumstances. “I
was going over to Lisbon to give myself up to Mr. Pelham.”

“Indeed! were you?”

“Yes, sir: I did not intend to run away; and it was
only when Raimundo had a boat from the shore that I
thought of such a thing. I have had hard luck; and
I would rather do my duty on board than wander all
about the country alone.”

“Then it was Lingall that spoiled your fun?”

“Yes, sir; but I shall never want to run away
again.”

“That’s what they all say. But, if you wished to get
back, why didn’t you go to Barcelona, where the Tritonia
is? That would have been the shortest way for
you.”

“I didn’t care about staying in the brig, with no one
but Mr. Marline and Mr. Rimmer on board,” answered
Bill, who could think of no better excuse.

Bill thought he might get a chance to slip away at
some point on the road, or at least when the party
arrived at Lisbon. If there was a steamer in port
bound to England, he might get on board of her.

“We will consider your case at another time,” said
the principal, as the train stopped at a station.

The principal and the surgeon, after sending Bill to
the other end of the compartment, had a talk about
Raimundo, who had evidently gone to Africa to get out
of the jurisdiction of Spain. After examining Bradshaw,
they found the fugitives could take a steamer to
Bona, in Algeria, and from there make their way to
Italy or Egypt; and concluded they would do so.



CHAPTER XVII.

THROUGH THE HEART OF SPAIN.


Bill Stout concluded that he was not a success
as a tourist in Spain; but he was confident that he
should succeed better in England. He resolved to be
a good boy till the excursionists arrived in Lisbon, and
not make any attempt to escape; for it was not likely
that he could accomplish his purpose. Besides, he
had no taste for any more travelling in Spain. In fact,
he had a dread of being cast upon his own resources in
the interior, where he could not speak the language.

“Do you know what country you are in?” asked
Dr. Winstock, who sat opposite his pupils, as he had
come to call them.

“I reckon you’d know if you had seen it as I have,”
interposed Bill Stout, who had a seat next to Murray,
with a broad grin at the absurdity of the question.
“It is Spain,—the meanest country on the face of
the earth.”

“So you think, Stout; but you have had a rather
hard experience of it,” replied the doctor. “We have
had a very good time since we left Barcelona.”

“I suppose you know the lingo; and that makes all
the difference in the world,” added Bill.

“When I spoke of country, I referred to a province,”
continued Dr. Winstock.

“This is La Mancha,” answered Sheridan.

“The country of Don Quixote,” added the doctor.

“I saw a statue of Cervantes at Madrid, and I heard
one of the fellows say he was the author of ‘Don
Juan,’” laughed Murray.

“Cervantes wrote the first part at Valladolid, and it
produced a tremendous sensation. I suppose you have
read it.”

“I never did,” replied Bill Stout, who counted himself
in as one of the party. “Is it a good story?”

“It is so considered by those who are competent
judges.”

“I read it years ago,” added Sheridan.

“It is said to be a take–off on the knights of Spain,”
said Murray. “Is that so?”

“I don’t think that was his sole idea in writing the
book; or, if it was, he enlarged upon his plan. He was
a literary man, with some reputation, before he wrote
Don Quixote; and he probably selected the most
popular subject he could find, and it grew upon him
as he proceeded. Sancho Panza is a representative
of homely common–sense, unaided by any imagination,
while his master is full of it. He is used, in the first
part of the story, to act as a contrast to the extravagant
Don; and in this part of the work he does not use
any of the proverbs which is the staple of the typical
Spaniard’s talk. The introduction of this feature of
Sancho’s talk was a new idea to the author.”

“I suppose Cervantes was born and lived in La
Mancha,” said Murray.

“Not at all: he was born near Madrid, at Alcala de
Henares. He was a soldier in the early years of his
life. He fought in the battle of Lepanto, under Don
John. At one time he was a sort of custom–house
officer in Seville; but he got into debt, and was imprisoned
for three months, during which time he is
said to have been engaged in his great work. He was
also a prisoner in Algiers five years; and ten times he
risked his life in attempts to escape. He finally died
in neglect, poverty, and want.”

“Then this is where Don Quixote tilted at windmills,”
said Murray, looking out at the window; “and
there is one of them.”

“It is not in every province of Spain that the Don
could have found a windmill to tilt at,” added the
doctor.

About eight o’clock the train stopped for breakfast,
which the _avant–courier_ had ordered.

“This is a vine and olive country,” said the doctor,
when the train was again in motion.

“Shall we have a chance to see how they make the
oil and how they make wine?” asked Sheridan.

“You will have a chance to see how it is done; but
you will not be able to see it done at this season of
the year. There is an olive–orchard,” continued the
doctor, pointing out of the window.

“The trees look like willows; and I should think
they were willows.”

“They are not. These trees last a great number of
years,—some say, hundreds.”

“There are some which look as though they were
planted by Noah after he left the ark. They are ugly–looking
trees,” added Murray.

“The people do not plant them for their beauty, but
for the fruit they yield. You see they are in regular
rows, like an apple–orchard at home. They start the
trees from slips, which are cut off in January. The end
of the slip is quartered with a knife, and a small stone
put into the end to separate the parts, and the slip stuck
into the ground. The earth is banked up around the
plant, which has to be watered and tenderly cared for
during the first two years of its growth. In ten years
these trees yield some returns; but they are not at their
best estate till they are thirty years old. The olives
we eat”—

“I never eat them,” interrupted Murray, shaking his
head.

“It is an acquired taste; but those who do like
them are usually very fond of them. The olive which
comes in jars for table use is picked before it is quite
ripe, but when full grown; and it is pickled for a week
in a brine made of water, salt, garlic, and some other
ingredients. The best come from the neighborhood
of Seville.”

“But I don’t see how they make the oil out of the
olive. It don’t seem as though there is any grease in
it,” said Sheridan.

“The berry is picked for the manufacture of oil when
it is ripe, and is then of a purple color. It is gathered
in the autumn; and I have seen the peasants beating
the trees with sticks, while the women and children
were picking up the olives on the ground. The women
drive the donkeys to the mill, bearing the berries in the
panniers. The olives are crushed on a big stone hollowed
out for the purpose, by passing a stone roller
over them, which is moved by a mule. The pulp is
then placed in a press not unlike that you have seen in
a cider–mill. The oil flows out into a reservoir under
the press, from which it is bailed into jars big enough
to contain a man: these jars are sunk in the ground
to keep them cool. The mass left in the press after the
oil is extracted is used to feed the hogs, or for fuel.”

“And is that the stuff they put in the casters?”
asked Murray, with his nose turned up in disgust.

“That is certainly olive–oil,” replied the doctor.
“You look as though you did not like it.”

“I do not: I should as soon think of eating lamp–oil.”

“Every one to his taste, lieutenant; but I have no
doubt you have eaten a great deal of it since you came
into Spain,” laughed the doctor.

“Not if I knew it!”

“You did not know it; but you have had it on your
beefsteaks and mutton–chops, as well as in the various
made–dishes you have partaken of. Spanish oil is not
so pure and good as the Italian. Lucca oil has the
best reputation. A poorer quality of oil is made here,
which is used in making soap.”

“Castile soap?”

“Yes; and all kinds of oils are used for soap.”

“How do they fresco it?” asked Murray.

“Fresco it! They give it the marble look by putting
coloring matter, mixed with oil, into the mass of soap
before it is moulded into bars. What place is this?”
said the doctor, as the train stopped.

“Almaden,” replied Sheridan, reading the sign on
the station.

“I thought so, for I spent a couple of days here.
Do you know what it is famous for?”

“I don’t think I ever heard the name of the place
before,” replied Sheridan.

“It contains the greatest mine of quicksilver in the
world,” added the doctor. “It was worked in the time
of the Romans, and is still deemed inexhaustible. Four
thousand men are employed here during the winter, for
they cannot labor in the summer because the heat
renders it too unhealthy. The men can work only six
hours at a time; and many of them are salivated and
paralyzed by the vapors of the mercury.”

“Is this the same stuff the doctors use?” asked
Murray.

“It is; but it is prepared especially for the purpose.
These mines yield the government of Spain a revenue
of nearly a million dollars a year.”

The country through which the tourists passed was
not highly cultivated, except near the towns. On the
way they saw a man ploughing–in his grain, and the implement
seemed to be a wooden one. But every thing
in the agricultural line was of the most primitive kind.
In another place they saw a farmer at work miles from
his house, for there was no village within that distance.
Though there is not a fence to be seen, every man
knows his own boundary–lines. In going to his day’s
work, he may have to go several miles, taking his
plough and other tools in a cart; and probably he
wastes half his day in going to and from his work.
But the Spanish peasant is an easy–going fellow, and he
does not go very early, or stay very late. Often in the
morning and in the middle of the afternoon our travellers
saw them going to or coming from their work in
this manner.

“Now we are out of La Mancha,” said the doctor,
half an hour after the train left Almaden.

“And what are we in now, sir?” asked Murray.

“We are in the province of Cordova, which is a part
of Andalusia. But we only go through a corner of
Cordova, and then we strike into Estremadura.”

In the afternoon the country looked better, though the
people and the houses seemed to be very poor. The
country looked better; but it was only better than the
region near Madrid, and, compared with France or
Italy, it was desolation. The effects of the _mesta_ were
clearly visible.

“Medellin,” said Murray, when he had spelled out
the word on a station where the train stopped about
half–past two.

“Do you know the place?” asked Dr. Winstock.

“Never heard of it.”

“Yet it has some connection with the history of the
New World. It is mentioned in Prescott’s ‘Conquest
of Mexico.’”

“I have read that, but I do not remember this name.”

“It is the birthplace of Hernando Cortes; and in
Trujillo, a town forty miles north of us, was born
another adventurer whose name figures on the glowing
page of Prescott,” added the doctor.

“That was Pizarro,” said Sheridan. “I remember
he was born at—what did you call the place, doctor?”

“Trujillo.”

“But in Prescott it is spelled with an _x_ where you
put an _h_.”

“It is the same thing in Spanish, whether you spell
it with an _x_ or _j_. It is a strong aspirate, like _h_, but
is pronounced with a rougher breathing sound. Loja
and Loxa are the same word,” explained the doctor.
“So you will find Cordova spelled with a _b_ instead of
a _v_; but the letters have the same power in Spanish.”

“What river is this on the right?” inquired Murray.

“That is the Guadiana.”

“And where are its eyes, of which Professor Mapps
spoke in his lecture?”

“We passed them in the night, and also went over
the underground river,” replied the doctor. “The
region through which we are now passing was more
densely peopled in the days when it was a part of the
Roman empire than it is now. Without doubt the same
is true of the period of the Moorish dominion. After
America was discovered, and colonization began, vast
numbers of emigrants went from Estremadura. In the
time of Philip II. the country began to run down; and
one of the reasons was the emigration to America.
About four o’clock we shall arrive at Merida,” added
the doctor, looking at his watch.

“What is there at Merida?”

“There is a great deal for the antiquarian and the
student of history. You must be on the lookout for it,
for there are many things to be seen from the window
of the car,” continued the doctor. “It was the capital
of Lusitania, and was called _Emerita Augusta_, from the
first word of which title comes the present name. The
river there is crossed by a Roman bridge twenty–five
hundred and seventy–five feet long, twenty–five wide,
and thirty–three above the stream. The city was surrounded
by six leagues of walls, having eighty–four
gates, and had a garrison of eighty thousand foot
and ten thousand horsemen. The ruins of aqueducts,
temples, forum, circus, and other structures, are still to
be seen; some of them, as I said, from the train.”

Unfortunately the train passed the portion of the
ruins of the ancient city to be seen from the window,
so rapidly that only a glance at them could be
obtained; but perhaps most of the students saw all
they desired of them. An hour and a half later the
train arrived at Badajos, where they were to spend
the night, and thence proceed to Lisbon the next morning.
Each individual of the ship’s company had been
provided with a ticket; and it was called for in the
station before he was permitted to pass out of the
building. As soon as they appeared in the open air,
they were assailed by a small army of omnibus–drivers;
but fortunately, as the town was nearly two miles from
the station, there were enough for all of them. These
men actually fought together for the passengers, and
behaved as badly as New York hackmen. Though all
the vehicles at the station were loaded as full as they
could be stowed, there was not room for more than
half of the party.

The doctor and his pupils preferred to walk. In
Madrid, the principal had received a letter from the
_avant–courier_; informing him how many persons could
be accommodated in each of the hotels; and all the
excursionists had been assigned to their quarters.

“We go to the _Fonda las Tres Naciones_,” said the
doctor as they left the station. “I went there when I
was here before. Those drivers fought for me as they
did to–day; and with some reason, for I was the only
passenger. I selected one, and told him to take me to
the _Fonda de las cuatro Naciones_; and he laughed as
though I had made a good joke. I made it ‘Four
Nations’ instead of ‘Three.’ Here is the bridge over
the Guadiana, built by the same architect as the Escurial.”

“What is there in this place to see?” asked Sheridan.

“Nothing at all; but it is an out–of–the–way old
Spanish town seldom mentioned by tourists.”

“I have not found it in a single book I have read,
except the guide–books; and all these have to say
about it is concerning the battles fought here,” added
Sheridan.

“Mr. Lowington has us stop here by my advice; and
we are simply to spend the night here. You were on
the train last night, and it would have been too much
to add the long and tedious journey to Lisbon to that
from Madrid without a night’s rest. Besides, you
should see what you can of Portugal by daylight; for
we are to visit only Lisbon and some of the places
near it.”

The party entered the town, and climbed up the
steep streets to the hotel. The place was certainly
very primitive. It had been a Roman town, and did
not seem to have changed much since the time of the
Cæsars. A peculiarly Spanish supper was served at
the Three Nations, which was the best hotel in the
place, but poor enough at that. Those who were fond
of garlic had enough of it. The room in which the
captain and first lieutenant were lodged had no window,
and the ceiling was composed of poles on which
hay was placed; and the apartment above them may
have been a stable, or at least a hay–loft. Some of the
students took an evening walk about the town, but
most of them “turned in” at eight o’clock.

The party were called at four o’clock in the morning;
and after a light breakfast of coffee, eggs, and bread,
they proceeded to the station. The train provided for
them consisted of second–class carriages, at the head
of which were several freight–cars. This is the regular
day train, all of the first–class cars being used on the
night train.

“Now you can see something of Badajos,” said the
doctor, as they walked down the hill. “It is a frontier
town, and the capital of the province. It is more of a
fortress than a city. Marshal Soult captured it in
1811; and it is said that it was taken only through the
treachery of the commander of the Spaniards. The
Duke of Wellington captured it in 1812. I suppose
you have seen pictures by the Spanish artist Morales,
for there are some in the _Museo_ at Madrid. He was
born here; and, when Philip II. stopped at Badajos on
his way to Lisbon, he sent for the artist. The king
remarked, ‘You are very old, Morales.’—‘And very
poor,’ replied the painter; and Philip gave him a
pension of three hundred ducats a year till he died.
Manuel Godoy, the villanous minister of Charles IV.,
called the ‘Prince of Peace,’ was born also here.”

The train started at six o’clock, while it was still
dark. Badajos is five miles from the boundary–line of
Portugal; and in about an hour the train stopped at
Elvas. The Portuguese police were on hand in full
force, as well as a squad of custom–house officers. The
former asked each of the adult members of the party
his name, age, nationality, occupation, and a score of
other questions, and would have done the same with
the students if the doctor had not protested; and the
officers contented themselves with merely taking their
names, on the assurance that they were all Americans,
were students, and had passports. Every bag and valise
was opened by the custom–house officers; and
all the freight and baggage cars were locked and
sealed, so that they should not be opened till they
arrived at Lisbon. Elvas has been the seat of an
extensive smuggling trade, and the officers take every
precaution to break up the business.

The train was detained over an hour; and some of
the students, after they had been “overhauled” as they
called it, ran up into the town. Like Badajos, it is a
strongly fortified place; but, unlike that, it has never
been captured, though often besieged. The students
caught a view of the ancient aqueduct, having three
stories of arches.

The train started at last; and all day it jogged along
at a snail’s pace through Portugal. The scenery was
about the same as in Spain, and with about the same
variety one finds in New England. Dr. Winstock called
the attention of his pupils to the cork–trees, and described
the process of removing the bark, which forms
the valuable article of commerce. They saw piles of
it at the railroad stations, waiting to be shipped.

There were very few stations on the way, and hardly
a town was seen before four in the afternoon, when
the train crossed the Tagus. The students were almost
in a state of rebellion at this time, because they had
had nothing to eat since their early breakfast. They
had come one hundred and ten miles in ten hours;
and eleven miles an hour was slow locomotion on a
railroad. The courier wrote that he had made an
arrangement by which the train was to go to the junction
with the road to Oporto in seven hours, which
was not hurrying the locomotive very much; but the
conductor said he had no orders to this effect.

“This is Entroncamiento,” said the doctor, as the
train stopped at a station. “We dine here.”

“Glory!” replied Murray. “But we might starve if
we had to pronounce that name before dinner.”

The students astonished the keeper of the restaurant
by the quantity of soup, chicken, and chops they devoured;
but they all gave him the credit of providing
an excellent dinner. The excursionists had to wait a
long time for the train from Oporto, for it was more
than an hour late; and they did not arrive at Lisbon till
half–past nine. The doctor and his pupils were sent
to the Hotel Braganza, after they had gone through
another ordeal with the custom–house officers. Bill
Stout was taken to the Hotel Central on the quay by
the river. The runaway had been as tractable as one
of the lambs, till he came to the hotel. While the
party were waiting for the rooms to be assigned to
them, and Mr. Lowington was very busy, he slipped
out into the street. He walked along the river, looking
out at the vessels anchored in the stream. He
made out the outline of several steamers. While he
was looking at them, a couple of sailors, “half seas
over,”, passed him. They were talking in English, and
Bill hailed them.

“Do you know whether there is a steamer in port
bound to England?” he asked, after he had passed the
time of night with them.

“Yes, my lad: there is the Princess Royal, and she
sails for London early in the morning,” replied the
more sober of the two sailors. “Are you bound to
London?”

“I am. Which is the Princess Royal?”

The man pointed the steamer out to him, and insisted
that he should take a drink with them. Bill did
not object. But he never took any thing stronger than
wine, and his new friends insisted that he should join
them with some brandy. He took very little; but then
he felt obliged to treat his new friends in turn for their
civility, and he repeated the dose. He then inquired
where he could find a boat to take him on board of the
steamer. They went out with him, and soon found a
boat, in which he embarked. The boatman spoke a
little English; and as soon as he was clear of the shore
he asked which steamer his passenger wished to go to.
By this time the brandy was beginning to have its
effect upon Bill’s head; but he answered the man by
pointing to the one the sailor had indicated, as he supposed.

In a few moments the boat was alongside the steamer;
and Bill’s head was flying around like a top. He paid
the boatman his price, and then with an uneasy step
walked up the accommodation–ladder. A man was
standing on the platform at the head of the ladder, who
asked him what he wanted.

“I want to go to England,” replied the runaway, tossing
his bag over the rail upon the deck.

“This vessel don’t go to England; you have boarded
the wrong steamer,” replied the man.

Bill hailed the boatman, who was pulling for the
shore.

“Anchor watch!” called the man on the platform.
“Bring a lantern here!”

“Here is one,” said a young man, wearing an overcoat
and a uniform cap, as he handed up a lantern to
the first speaker.

“Hand me my bag, please, gen’l’men,” said Bill.

At this moment the man on the platform held the
lantern up to Bill’s face.

“I thought I knew that voice,” added Mr. Pelham,
for it was he. “Don’t give him the bag, Scott.”

“That’s my bag, and I want it,” muttered Bill.

“I am afraid you have been drinking, Stout,” continued
the vice–principal, taking Bill by the collar, and
conducting him down the steps to the deck of the
American Prince.

“It is Stout, as sure as I live!” exclaimed Scott.

“No doubt of that, though he has changed his rig.
Pass the word for Mr. Peaks.”

Bill was not so far gone but that he understood the
situation. He had boarded the American Prince, instead
of the Princess Royal. The big boatswain of
the steamer soon appeared, and laid his great paw on
the culprit.

“Where did you come from, Stout?” asked the vice–principal.

“I came down with Mr. Lowington and the rest of
them,” answered Bill; and his tongue seemed to be
twice too big for his mouth.

Mr. Pelham sent for Mr. Fluxion, and they got out
of the tipsy runaway all they could. They learned that
the ship’s company of the Prince had just arrived.
Bill Stout was caged; and the two vice–principals went
on shore in the boat that was waiting for the “passenger
for England.” They found Mr. Lowington at the
Hotel Central. He was engaged just then in looking
up Bill Stout; and he was glad to know that he was in
a safe place.



CHAPTER XVIII.

AFRICA AND REPENTANCE.


Having brought Bill Stout safely into port, we
feel obliged to bestow some attention upon the
other wanderers from the fold of discipline and good
instruction. At the _Fonda del Cid_, where our brace of
tourists went after taking such unceremonious leave of
Bill Stout, was a party of English people who insisted
upon having their breakfast at an hour that would permit
them to use the forenoon in seeing the sights of
Valencia; and thus it happened that this meal was
ready for the fugitives at eight o’clock.

“What day is this, Lingall?” asked Raimundo, as they
came into the main hall of the hotel after breakfast.

“Wednesday,” replied Bark.

“I thought so. Look at this bill,” added the second
master, pointing to a small poster, with the picture of a
steamer at the head of it.

“I see it, but I can’t read it.”

“This steamer starts from Grao at ten this forenoon,
for Oran. It is only half–past eight now.”

“Starts from Grao? where is that?” asked Bark.

“Grao is the port of Valencia: it is not many miles
from here.”

“And where is the other place? I never heard of it.”

“Oran is in Algeria. It cannot be more than three
hundred miles from Valencia.”

“But that will be going to Africa.”

“It will be the best thing we can do if we mean to
keep out of the way.”

“I don’t object: I am as willing to go to Africa as
anywhere else.”

“We can stay over there for a week or two, and then
come back to Spain. We can hit the Tritonia at Cadiz
or Lisbon.”

“I don’t think I want to hit her,” replied Bark with
a sheepish smile.

“I was speaking for myself; and I forgot that your
case was not the same as my own,” added Raimundo.

“I don’t know what your case is; but, as you seem
to be perfectly easy about it, I wish mine was no worse
than I believe yours is.”

“We will talk about that another time; for, if we are
going to Oran, it is time we were on the way to the
port,” said Raimundo. “If you don’t want to go to
Africa, I won’t urge it; but that will suit my case the
best of any thing I can think of.”

“It makes no difference to me where I go; and I
am perfectly willing to go with you wherever you wish,”
replied Bark, who, from hating the second master, had
come to have an intense admiration for him.

Bark Lingall believed that his companion had saved
the lives of the whole party in the boat; and certainly
he had managed the expedition with great skill. He
was as brave as a lion, in spite of his gentleness. But
perhaps his respect and regard for the young Spaniard
had grown out of the contrast he could not help making
between him and Bill Stout. He could not now understand
how it was that he had got up such an intimacy
with his late associate in mischief, or rather in crime.
Burning the Tritonia was vastly worse than he had at
first considered it. Its enormity had increased in his
mind when he reflected that Raimundo, who must have
had a very strong motive for his sudden disappearance,
had preferred to reveal himself rather than have the
beautiful craft destroyed. In a word, Bark had made
some progress towards a genuine repentance for taking
part in the conspiracy with Bill Stout.

Raimundo paid the bill, and they took a _tartana_ for
Grao. They learned from the driver that it was less
than half an hour’s ride. They first went to the office
of the steamer, paid their passage, and secured their
state–room.

“This is a good move for another reason,” said Raimundo,
as they started again.

“What’s that?” asked Bark.

“I have been expecting to see Stout drop down
upon us every moment since we went to the hotel.”

“So have I; and I think, if it had been my case, I
should have found you by this time, if I wanted to do
so,” added Bark.

“It is hardly time yet for him to get around; but
he will find the _Fonda del Cid_ in the course of the
forenoon. You forget that Stout cannot speak a word
of Spanish; and his want of the language will make it
slow work for him to do any thing.”

“I did not think of that.”

“Do you feel all right about leaving him as we did?”
asked Raimundo. “For my part, I could not endure
him. He insulted me without the least reason for
doing so.”

“He is the most unreasonable fellow I ever met in
the whole course of my natural life. It was impossible
to get along with him; and I am entirely satisfied with
myself for leaving him,” replied Bark. “He insulted
you, as you say; and I gave him the alternative of
apologizing to you, or of parting company with us. I
believe I did the fair thing. A fellow cannot hug a
hog for any great length of period.”

“That’s so; but didn’t you know him before?”

“I knew him, of course; and he was always
grumbling and discontented about something; but I
never thought he was such a fellow as he turned out to
be. I haven’t known him but a couple of months or
so.”

“I should think you would have got at him while you
were getting up something”—Raimundo did not say
what—“with him.”

“I was dissatisfied myself. The squadron did not
prove to be what I anticipated,” added Bark. “I had
an idea that it was in for a general good time; that all
we had to do was to go from place to place, and see
the sights.”

“But you knew it was a school.”

“Certainly I did; but I never supposed the fellows
had to study half as hard as they do. I thought the
school was a sort of a fancy idea, to make it take with
the parents of the boys. When I found how hard we
had to work, I was disgusted with the whole thing.
Then I fell in with Bill Stout and others; and, when
we had talked the matter over a few times, it was even
worse than I had supposed when I did all my own
thinking on the subject. After we got together, we
both became more and more discontented, till we were
convinced that we were all slaves, and that it was
really our duty to break the chains that bound us.
This was all the kind of talk I ever had with Stout;
and, as we sympathized on this matter, I never looked
any farther into his character.”

“We shall have time enough to talk over these
things when we get on board the steamer,” added
Raimundo. “I have watched you and Stout a great
deal on board of the Tritonia; and I confess that I was
prejudiced against you. I didn’t feel any better about
it when I found you and Stout trying to destroy the
vessel. But I must say now that you are a different
sort of fellow from what I took you to be; and nobody
ever grew any faster in another’s estimation than you
have in mine since that affair last night in the felucca.
I believe your pluck and skill in hauling that cut–throat
down saved the whole of us.”

“I have been thinking all the time it was you that
saved us,” added Bark, intensely gratified at the praise
of Raimundo.

“The battle would have been lost if it hadn’t been
for you; for I struck at the villain, and missed him. If
you hadn’t brought him down, his knife would have
been into me in another instant. But here is the port.”

The steamer was one of the “_Messageries Nationales_,”
though that name had been recently substituted for
“Imperiales” because the emperor had been abolished.
The tourists went on board in a shore–boat, and took
possession of their state–room. They made their preparations
for the voyage, and then went on deck. They
found comfortable seats, and the weather was like
spring.

“What is the name of this steamer?” asked Bark.

“The City of Brest.”

“That was not the name on the handbill we saw;
was it, Mr. Raimundo?”

“Yes,—_Ville de Brest_.”

“That was it,” added Bark.

“Well, that is the French of City of Brest,” laughed
the second master. “Don’t you speak French?”

“I know a little of it; and I know that a ‘_ville_’ is
a city; but I didn’t understand it as you spoke the
word.”

“I learned all the French I know in the academy
squadron; and I can get along very well with it. I
have spent a whole evening where nothing but French
was spoken by the party. Professor Badois never
speaks a word of English to me.”

“And you speak Italian and German besides, Mr.
Raimundo.”

“I can get along with them, as I can with French.”

“That makes five languages you speak.”

“I am not much in Italian,” laughed the second master.
“My uncle set me to learning it in New York;
but I forgot most of it, and learned more while we
were in Italy than I ever knew before.”

“I wish I had some other lingo besides my own.”

“You can have it by learning it.”

“But I am not so good a scholar as you are, Mr.
Raimundo.”

“You don’t know that; for, if I mistake not, you
have never laid yourself out on study, as I had not
when I first went on board of the Young America.
But, to change the subject, you have called me Mr.
Raimundo three times since we sat down here. I agree
with Stout so far, that we had better drop all titles till I
put on my uniform again.”

“I have been so used to calling you Mr., that it
comes most natural for me to do so,” replied Bark.

“I think I shall change my name a little; at least, so
far as to translate it into plain English. I have always
kept my Spanish name, which is Enrique Raimundo.
It is so entered on the ship’s books; but I shall make
it Henry Raymond for the present.”

“And is that the English of the other name?”

“It is; and, when you call me any thing, let it be
Henry.”

“Very well, Henry,” added Bark.

“That is the name I gave when I bought the tickets.
I noticed that Stout called you Bark.”

“My name is Barclay; and you can call me that, or
Bark for short.”

“Bark don’t sound very respectful, and it reminds
one of a dog.”

“My bark is on the wave; and I do not object to the
name. I was always called Bark before I went to sea,
and it sounds more natural to me than any thing else
would. My father always called me Barclay; and I
believe he was the only one that did.”

“All right, Bark: if you don’t object, I need not.
You hinted that you did not think you should go back
to the Tritonia.”

“It wouldn’t be safe for me to do so,” replied Bark
anxiously.

“I have come to the conclusion that it is always the
safest to do the right thing, whatever the consequences
may be.”

“What! stay in the brig the rest of the voyage!”

“Yes, if that is the penalty for doing the right
thing,” replied Henry, as he chooses to be called.

“Suppose you were in my place; that you had tried
to set the vessel on fire, and had run away: what would
you do?”

“You did not set the vessel on fire, or try to do it.
It was Stout that did it,” argued Raymond.

“But I was in the plot. I agreed to take part in it;
and I hold myself to be just as deep in the mire as
Bill Stout is in the mud,” added Bark.

“I am glad to see that you are a man about it, and
don’t shirk off the blame on the other fellow.”

“Though I did not get up the idea, I am as guilty
as Bill; and I will not cast it all upon him.”

“That’s the right thing to say.”

“But what would you do, if you were in my place?”

“Just as I said before. I should return to the
Tritonia, and face the music, if I were sent home in a
man–of–war, to be tried for my life for the deed.”

“That’s pretty rough medicine.”

“Since I have been in the squadron, I have learned
a new morality. I don’t think it would be possible for
me to commit a crime, especially such as burning a
vessel; but, if I had done it, I should want to be hanged
for it as soon as possible. I don’t know that anybody
else is like me; but I tell you just how I feel.”

“But, if you were bad enough to do the deed, you
could not feel as you do now,” replied Bark, shaking
his head.

“That may be; but I can only tell you how I feel
now. I never did any thing that I called a crime,—I
mean any thing that made me liable to be punished by
the law,—but I was a very wild fellow in the way of
mischief. I used to be playing tricks upon the fellows,
on my schoolmasters, and others, and was always in a
scrape. I was good for nothing till I came on board
of the Young America. As soon as I got interested, I
worked night and day to get my lessons. Of course
I had to be very correct in my conduct, or I should
have lost my rank. It required a struggle for me to
do these things at first; but I was determined to be an
officer. I was as severe with myself as though I had
been a monk with the highest of aspirations. I was
an officer in three months; and I have been one ever
since, though I have never been higher than fourth
lieutenant, for the reason that I am not good in mathematics.
My strength is in the languages.”

“But I should think you would get discouraged
because you get no higher.”

“Not at all. As the matter stands now with me, I
should do the best I could if I had to take the lowest
place in the ship.”

“I don’t understand that,” added Bark, who had
come to the conclusion that his companion was the
strangest mortal on the face of the earth; but that was
only because Bark dwelt on a lower moral plane.

“After I had done my duty zealously for a few
months, I was happy only in doing it; and it gave me
more pleasure than the reward that followed it. Like
Ignatius Loyola, I became an enthusiastic believer in
God, in a personal God, in Christ the Saviour, and in
the Virgin Mary: blessed be the Mother of God, her
Son, and the Father of all of us!” and Raymond
crossed himself as devoutly as though he were engaged
in his devotions.

Bark was absolutely thrilled by this narrative of the
personal experience of his new–found friend; and he
was utterly unable to say any thing.

“But God and duty seem almost the same to me,”
continued Raymond. “I am ready to die or to live,
but not to live at the expense of right and duty. For
the last six months I have believed myself liable to be
assassinated at any time. I know not how much this
has to do with my mental, moral, and religious condition;
but I am as I have described myself to be. I
should do my duty if I knew that I should be burned
at the stake for it”

“What do you mean by assassinated?” asked Bark,
startled by the statement.

“I mean exactly what I say. But I am going to tell
you my story in full. I have related it to only one
other student in the squadron; and, if we should be
together again on board of the Tritonia, I must ask you
to keep it to yourself,” said Raymond.

“It has bothered me all along to understand how a
fellow as high–toned as you are could allow yourself to
be considered a runaway; for I suppose the officers
look upon you as such.”

“No doubt they do; but in good time I shall tell
Mr. Lowington the whole story, and then he will be
able to judge for himself.”

By this time the steamer had started. Raymond
told his story just as he had related it to Scott on
board of the Tritonia. Bark was interested; and, when
the recital was finished, the steamer was out of sight
of land.

“I suppose you will not believe me when I say it;
but I have kept out of my uncle’s way more for his
sake than my own,” said Raymond in conclusion. “I
will not tempt one of my own flesh and blood to commit
a crime; and I feel that it would have been cowardice
for me to run away from my ship for the mere
sake of saving myself from harm. Besides, I think I
could take care of myself in Barcelona.”

“I have no doubt of that,” replied Bark, whose admiration
of his fellow–tourist was even increased by the
narration to which he had just listened.

Certainly Raymond was a most remarkable young
man. Bark felt as though he were in the presence of a
superior being. He realized his own meanness and
littleness, judged by the high standard of his companion.
As both of them were tired, after the night on the
train, they went to the state–room, and lay down in their
berths. Raymond went to sleep; but Bark could not,
for he was intensely excited by the conversation he
had had with his new friend. He lay thinking of
his own life and character, as compared with his companion’s;
and the conspiracy in which he had taken
part absolutely filled him with horror. The inward
peace and happiness which Raymond had realized from
his devotion to duty strongly impressed him.

But we will not follow him through all the meanderings
of his thought. It is enough to say that fellowship
with Raymond had made a man of him, and he was
fully determined to seek peace in doing his whole duty.
He was prepared to do what his companion had counselled
him to do,—to return to the Tritonia, and take
the consequences of his evil–doing. When his friend
awoke, he announced to him his decision. Raymond
saw that he was sincere, and he did all he could to
confirm and strengthen his good resolution.

“There is one thing about the matter that troubles
me,” said Bark, as they seated themselves on deck
after dinner. “I am willing to own up, and take the
penalty, whatever it may be; but, if I confess that I
was engaged in a conspiracy to burn the Tritonia, I shall
implicate others,—I shall have to blow on Bill Stout.”

“Well, what right have you to do any thing else?”
demanded Raymond earnestly. “Suppose Filipe had
killed me last night, and had offered you a thousand
dollars to conceal the crime: would it have been right
for you to accept the offer?”

“Certainly not.”

“You would be an accomplice if you had. You
have no more right to cover up Stout’s crime than you
would have to conceal Filipe’s. Besides, the principal
ought to know that he has a fellow on board that is bad
enough to burn the Tritonia. He may do it with some
other fellow yet; and, if he should, you would share
the guilt with him.”

“You found out what we were doing,” added Bark.

“And I felt that I ought not to leave the vessel without
telling the steward,” replied Raymond. “I certainly
intended to inform the principal as soon as I had
an opportunity. I believe in boy honor and all that
sort of thing as much as you do; but I have no right
to let the vessels of the squadron be burned.”

The subject was discussed till dark, and Bark could
not resist the arguments of his friend. He was resolved
to do his whole duty.

It is not our purpose to follow the fugitives into
Africa. They reached Oran the next day, and remained
there two weeks, until a steamer left for Malaga, when
they returned to Spain.

“That’s the American Prince, as true as you live!”
exclaimed Bark, as the vessel in which they sailed was
approaching Malaga; and both of them had been observing
her for an hour.

“She is on her way from Lisbon back to Barcelona;
and she will not be in Malaga for a week or more,”
replied Raymond.

Before night they were in the hotel in Malaga.



CHAPTER XIX.

WHAT PORTUGAL HAS DONE IN THE WORLD.


Mr. Lowington and the two vice–principals
had a hearty laugh over the misadventure of
poor Bill Stout, and then discussed their plans for the
future. The Prince had been in the river five days;
and the Josephines and Tritonias were all ready to
start for Badajos the next morning. It was Friday
night; and if the party left the next morning they would
be obliged to remain over Sunday at Badajos; or, if
they travelled all the next night, they would arrive at
Toledo on Sunday morning, and this was no place for
them to be on that day. It was decided that they
should remain on board of the Prince till Monday
morning, and that the Princes should go on board the
next morning to hear Professor’s Mapps’s lecture on
Portugal.

“Have you heard any thing of Raimundo or Lingall?”
asked the principal.

“Only what we got out of Stout,” replied Mr.
Pelham. “But he was too tipsy to tell a very straight
story.”

“I don’t see how he got tipsy so quick; for he must
have reached the Prince within fifteen or twenty minutes
after he left this hotel,” added Mr. Lowington. “However,
he told me all he knew—at least, I suppose he
did—about the others who ran away with him. It
seems that Raimundo did not leave the Tritonia, and
must have stowed himself away in the hold.”

“But we searched the hold very thoroughly,” said
Mr. Pelham.

“Did you look under the dunnage?”

“No, sir: he could not have got under that.”

“Probably he did,—made a hole in the ballast. He
must have had some one to help him,” suggested the
principal.

“If any one assisted him it must have been Hugo;
for, as he is a Spaniard, they were always very thick
together.”

“I have informed Don Francisco, the lawyer, that
Raimundo had gone to Oran; and I suppose he will
be on the lookout for him. I have also written to
Manuel Raimundo in New York. He must get my
letter in a day or two,” continued the principal. “It
is a very singular case; and I should as soon have
thought of Sheridan running away as Raimundo.”

“He must have had a strong reason for doing so,”
added the vice–principal of the Tritonia.

The next morning Mr. Pelham directed Peaks to
bring his prisoner into the cabin. Bill Stout did not
remember what he had said the night before; but he
had prepared a story for the present occasion.

“Good–morning, Stout,” the vice–principal began.
“How do you feel after your spree?”

“Pretty well, sir; I did not drink but once, and I
couldn’t help it then,” replied the culprit, beginning
to reel off the explanation he had got up for the occasion.

“You couldn’t help it? That’s very odd.”

“No, sir. I met a couple of sailors on shore, and
asked them if they could tell me where the American
Prince lay. They pointed the steamer out to me, and
they insisted that I should take a drink with them.
They wouldn’t take No for an answer, and I couldn’t
get off,” whined Bill; and he always whined when he
was in a scrape.

“Doubtless you gave them No for an answer,”
laughed Mr. Pelham.

“I certainly did; for I never take any thing. They
made me drink brandy; but I put very little into the
glass, and, as I am not used to liquor, it made me very
drunk.”

“One horn would not have made you as tipsy as you
were, Stout. I think you had better tell that story to
the other marines.”

“I am telling the truth, sir: I wouldn’t lie about it.”

“I think it is a bad plan to do so,” added the vice–principal.
“Then you were coming on board, were you?”

“Yes, sir: I wanted to see you, and own up.”

“Oh! that was your plan, was it?” laughed Mr. Pelham,
amused at the pickle into which the rascal was
putting himself.

“Yes, sir: I came from Valencia on purpose to give
myself up to you. I’m sorry I ran away. I got sick of
it in a day or two.”

“This was after Lingall left you, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir; but I was sorry for it before he left. We
were almost murdered in the felucca; and I had a hard
time of it.”

“And this made you penitent.”

“Yes, sir. I shall never run away again as long as I
live.”

“I hope you will not. And you came all the way
across Spain and Portugal to give yourself up to me,”
added Mr. Pelham. “You were so very anxious to
surrender to me, that you were not content to stay a
single night at the hotel with Mr. Lowington, who is
my superior.”

“I wanted to see you; and that’s the reason I left
the hotel, and came on board last night,” protested the
culprit.

“That’s a very good story, Stout; but for your sake
I am sorry it is only a story,” said the vice–principal.

“It is the truth, sir. I hope to”—

“No, no; stop!” interposed Mr. Pelham. “Don’t
hope any thing, except to be a better fellow. Your
story won’t hold water. I was at the gangway when
you came on board, and you told me that you wanted
to go to England.”

“I didn’t know what I was saying,” pleaded Bill,
taken aback by this answer.

“Yes, you did: you were not as tipsy as you might
have been; for, when I told you the steamer was not
going to England, you called your boatman back. It is
a plain case; and you can stay in the brig till the ship
returns to Barcelona.”

The lies did not help the case a particle; and somehow
every thing seemed to go wrong with Bill Stout,
but that was because he went wrong himself.

The boats were sent on ashore for the Princes; and
when they arrived all hands were called to attend the
lecture in the grand saloon.

“Young gentlemen, I am glad to meet you again,”
the professor began. “I have said all I need say about
the geography of the peninsula. Some of you have
been through Spain and Portugal, and have seen that
the natural features of the two countries are about the
same. The lack of industry and enterprise has had
the same result in both. The people are alike in one
respect, at least: each hates the other intensely. ‘Strip
a Spaniard of his virtues, and you have a Portuguese,’
says the Spanish proverb; but I fancy one is as good as
the other. There are plenty of minerals in the ground,
plenty of excellent soil, and plenty of fish in the waters
of Portugal; but none of the sources of wealth and
prosperity are used as in England, France, and the
United States. The principal productions are wheat,
wine, olive–oil, cork, wool, and fruit. Of the forty million
dollars’ worth of agricultural products, twelve are
in wine, ten in grain, and seven in wool. More than
two–thirds of the exports are to England.

“The population of Portugal is about four millions.
It has few large towns, only two having over fifty
thousand inhabitants. Lisbon has two hundred and
seventy–five thousand, and Oporto about ninety thousand.
Coimbra,—which has the only university in
the country,—Elvas, Evora, Braga, and Setubal, are
important towns. The kingdom has six provinces;
and we are now in Estremadura, as we were yesterday
morning, though it is not the same one.

“The government is a constitutional monarchy, not
very different from that of Spain. The present king
is Luis II. The army consists of about eighteen
thousand men; and the navy, of twenty–two steamers
and twenty–five sailing vessels. The colonial possessions
of Portugal have a population equal to the kingdom
itself.

“The money of Portugal will bother you.”

At this statement Sheridan and Murray looked at
each other, and laughed.

“You seem to be pleased, Captain Sheridan,” said
the professor. “Perhaps you have had some experience
with Portuguese money.”

“Yes, sir: I went into a store to buy some photographs;
and, when I asked the price of them, the man
told me it was one thousand six hundred and forty
_reis_. I concluded that I should be busted if I bought
that dozen pictures.”

“It takes about a million of those _reis_ to make a
dollar,” added Murray.

“But, when I came to figure up the price, I found it
was only a dollar and sixty–four cents,” continued
Sheridan.

“A naval officer who dined a party of his friends
in this very city, when he found the bill was twenty–seven
thousand five hundred _reis_, exclaimed that he
was utterly ruined, for he should never be able to pay
such a bill; but it was only twenty–seven dollars and a
half. You count the _reis_ at the rate of ten to a cent
of our money,—a thousand to a dollar. About all the
copper and silver money has a number on the coin that
indicates its value in _reis_. For large sums, the count
is given in _milreis_, which means a thousand _reis_. The
gold most in use is the English sovereign, which
passes for forty–five hundred _reis_. We will now give
some attention to the history of the country.

“Portugal makes no great figure on the map of
Europe. Looking at this narrow strip of territory,
one would naturally suppose that its history would not
fill a very large volume. But small states have had
their history told in voluminous works; and Portugal
happens to belong to this class. There are histories
and chronicles of this country in the Portuguese, Spanish,
Italian, French, English, and Latin languages, not
to mention some Arabic works which I have not had
time to examine,” continued the professor, with a
smile. “Some of these works consist of from ten to
thirty volumes. Even the discoveries and conquests
of this people in the East and West require quite a
number of large volumes; for there was a time when
Portugal filled a large place in the eye of the world,
though that time was short, hardly reaching through
the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

“But the history of this country does not begin at
all till the eleventh century. There was, indeed, the
old Roman province of Lusitania, which corresponded
very nearly in size with modern Portugal, except that
the latter extends farther north and not so far east.
The ancient Lusitanians were a warlike people; and
a hundred and fifty years before our era they gave
the Romans a great deal of trouble to conquer them.
Under Viriathus, the most famous of all the Lusitanians,
they routed several Roman armies; and might
have held their ground for many years longer, if their
hero had not been treacherously murdered by his own
countrymen.

“The lines of the old Roman provinces were not
preserved after the barbarians, of whom I have spoken
to you before, entered the peninsula in the fifth century.
The Arabs occupied this province with the rest
of the peninsula, after the defeat and death of King
Roderick, or Don Rodrigo, the last of the Gothic kings
of Spain; and held it till near the close of the eleventh
century, a part of it somewhat later. In 1095 Alfonso
VI., of Castile and Leon, bestowed a part of what is
now Portugal upon his son–in–law, Henri of Burgundy,
who had fought with Alfonso against the Moors, and
seemed to have the ability to protect the country given
him from the inroad of the Moslems. The region
granted to Henri extended only from the Minho to
the Tagus; and its capital was Coimbra, for Lisbon
was then a Moorish city. The new ruler was called a
count; and he had the privilege of conquering the
country as far south as the Guadiana. His son Dom
Alfonso defeated the Moors in a great battle near the
Tagus, and was proclaimed king of Portugal on the
battle–field. This was in the time of the crusades;
but Spain and Portugal had infidels enough to fight at
home, without going to the Holy Land, where hundreds
of thousands were sent to die by other countries
of Europe. Other additions were made to the
country during the next century; but since the middle
of the thirteenth century, when Sancho II. died, no
increase has been made in the peninsula. The wealth
and power of Portugal at a later period were derived
from her colonies in America, Asia, and Africa.

“John I.—Dom João, in Portuguese—led an expedition
against Ceuta, a Moorish stronghold just across
the Strait of Gibraltar, and captured the place. After
this began their wonderful series of discoveries, which
brought the whole world to the knowledge of Europe.
But the Portuguese were not the first to carry on commerce
by sea. Though merchandise had been mainly
transported by land in the East, there was some trade
on the Mediterranean and Black Seas, and on the
Indian Ocean. It does not appear that the Phœnicians,
the Carthaginians, or the Greeks, ever sailed on the
Baltic Sea; and, though the Romans explored some
parts of it, they never went far enough to ascertain that
it was bounded on all sides by land.

“The Eastern Empire of the middle ages, with its
capital at Constantinople, carried on a much more extensive
commerce than was ever known to the Romans
in the days of their universal dominion. At first the
goods brought from the East Indies were imported into
Europe from Alexandria; but, when Egypt was conquered
by the Arabs, a new route had to be found.
Merchandise was conveyed up the Indus as far as that
great river was navigable, then across the land to the
Oxus, now the Amoo, flowing into the Sea of Aral, but
then having a channel to the Caspian. From the
mouth of this river it was carried over the Caspian Sea,
and up the Volga, to about the point where there is now
a railroad connecting this river with the Don. Then
it was transported by land again to the Don, and taken
in vessels by the Black Sea to Constantinople. The
Suez Canal, opened this present year, makes an easy
and expeditious route by water for steamers, connecting
all the ports of Europe with those of India.

“During this period another commercial state was
growing up. After the fall of the Roman empire, when
the Huns under Attila were ravaging Italy, the inhabitants
of Venetia fled for safety to the group of islands
near the northern shore of the Adriatic, and laid the
foundation of the illustrious city and state of Venice.
The people of the city soon began to fit out small merchant
fleets, which they sent to all parts of the Mediterranean,
and particularly to Syria and Egypt, after
spices and other products of Arabia and India. Soon
after, the city of Genoa, on the other side of Italy,
became a rival of Venice in this trade, and Florence
and Pisa followed their example; but the Venetians,
having some natural advantages, outstripped their rivals
in the end, and became a great military and commercial
power. The crusades, in which others wasted life and
treasure, were a source of wealth to these Italian cities.
During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the commerce
of Europe was almost wholly confined to the
Italians. The merchants of Italy scattered themselves
in every kingdom; and the Lombards (for this was the
name by which they were known) became the merchants
and bankers everywhere. After a time, however, the
commercial spirit began to develop itself, and to make
progress in other parts of Europe; but, up to the
fifteenth century, vessels were accustomed, in their
voyages, to creep along the coast; and, though it was
known that the magnetic needle points constantly to
the North Pole, no use was made of this knowledge for
purposes of navigation.

“In 1415 the commercial spirit had reached Portugal;
and the Ceuta expedition was undertaken quite
as much in the interest of trade as of religion, for the
place was held by pirates who were daily disturbing
Portuguese commerce. Immense treasures fell to the
victors as the reward of their enterprise.

“Dom Henrique, or Henry, the son of King John,
afterwards so famous in the history of his country, had
a decided taste for study. He was an able mathematician,
and made himself master of all the astronomy
known to the Arabians, who were then the best mathematicians
of Europe. Henry also studied the works
of the ancients. At this period Ptolemy was the highest
authority in geography; and he taught that the African
Continent reached to the South Pole. But Henry had
read the ancient accounts of the circumnavigation of
Africa by the Phœnicians and others; and he believed,
that, whether these voyages had or had not been made,
good ships might sail around the southern point of the
continent. If this could be done, the Portuguese would
find a way to India by sea, and thus control the entire
trade of the East.

“The prince had many obstacles to overcome. Vessels
in that day were not built for the open sea; and
every headland and far–stretching cape seemed to be an
impossible barrier. There was a notion that near the
equator was a burning zone, where the very waters of
the ocean actually boiled under the intolerable heat of
the sun. A superstition also prevailed, that whoever
doubled Cape Bojador—on the coast of Africa, about
a thousand miles south of Lisbon—would never return;
and it was feared that the burning zone would change
those who entered it into negroes, thus dooming them
to wear the black marks of their temerity to the grave.

“The first voyage undertaken under the direction of
Prince Henry was in 1419, and covered only five
degrees of latitude. The expedition was driven out to
sea and landed at a small island north–east of Madeira,
which they named Porto Santo. The next year three
vessels were sent for a longer voyage. This fleet
reached the dreaded cape, and discovered Madeira.
On the next voyage they doubled Cape Bojador; and,
having exploded the superstition, in the course of a
few years they advanced four hundred leagues farther,
and discovered the Senegal River. Here they found
men with woolly hair and skins as black as ebony;
and they began to dread a nearer approach to the
equator.

“When they returned, their countrymen with one
voice attempted to dissuade Prince Henry from any
further attempts; but he would hear of no delay. He
applied to Pope Eugene IV.; and, representing that his
chief object was the pious wish to spread a knowledge
of the Christian faith among the idolatrous people of
Africa, he obtained a bull conferring on the people of
Portugal the exclusive right to all the countries they
had discovered, or might discover, between Cape Nun—about
three hundred miles north of Cape Bojador—and
India. Such a donation may appear ridiculous
enough to us; but it was never doubted then that the
pope had ample right to bestow such a gift; and for
a long time all the powers of Europe considered the
right of the Portuguese to be good, and acknowledged
their title to almost the whole of Africa. About this
time Prince Henry died, and little progress was made
in discovery for some years. But the Portuguese had
begun to push boldly out to sea, and had lost all dread
of the burning zone.

“In the reign of John II., from 1481 to 1495, discoveries
were pushed with greater vigor than ever before.
The Cape de Verde Islands were colonized; and
the Portuguese ships, which had advanced to the coast
of Guinea, began to return with cargoes of gold–dust,
ivory, gums, and other valuable products. It was during
the reign of this monarch that Columbus visited
Lisbon, and offered his services to Portugal; and it
appears that the king was inclined to listen to the plans
of the great navigator, but he was dissuaded from
doing so by his own courtiers.

“The revenue derived at this time from the African
coast became so important that John feared the vessels
of other nations might be attracted to it. To prevent
this, the voyages there were represented as being in the
highest degree dangerous, and even impossible except
in the peculiar vessels used by the Portuguese. The
monarchs of Castile had some idea of what was going
on, and were very eager to learn more; and in one
case came very near succeeding. A Portuguese captain
and two pilots, in the hope of a rich reward, set
out for Castile to dispose of the desired information;
but they were pursued by the king’s agents. When
overtaken, they refused to return; but two of them
were killed on the spot, and the other brought back to
Evora and quartered. The attempt of a rich Spaniard,
the Duke of Medina Sidonia, to build vessels in English
ports for the African trade, turned out no better.
King John reminded the English king, Edward IV., of
the ancient alliance between the two crowns; and so
these preparations were prohibited.

“In 1497 a Portuguese fleet under Vasco de Gama
doubled the Cape of Good Hope, or the Cape of
Storms as they called it then; and soon the voyagers
began to hear the Arabian tongue spoken on the other
shore of the continent, and found that they had nearly
circumnavigated Africa. At length, with the aid of
Mohammedan pilots, they passed the mouths of the
Arabian and Persian Gulfs, and, stretching along the
western coast of India, arrived, after a cruise of thirteen
months, at Calicut, on the shore of Malabar, less
than three hundred miles from the southern point of
the peninsula.

“The Court of Lisbon now appointed a viceroy to
rule over new countries discovered. Expeditions followed
each other in rapid succession; and, in less than
half a century more, the Portuguese were masters of
the entire trade of the Indian Ocean. Their flag floated
triumphantly along the shores of Africa from Morocco
to Abyssinia, and on the Asiatic coast from Arabia
to Siam; not to mention the vast regions of Brazil,
which this nation began to colonize about the same
time. These conquests were not made without opposition;
but the Portuguese were as remarkable for
their valor as for their enterprise, in those days; and,
for a time, their prowess was too much for their enemies
in Africa, in India, and even in Europe. The
Venetians, who had lost the trade between India and
Europe, were of course their enemies; and the Sultan
of Egypt was hostile when he found that he was about
to lose the profitable trade that passed through Alexandria.
These two powers joined hands; and the
Venetians sent from Italy to the head of the Red Sea,
at an immense expense, the materials for building a
fleet to meet and destroy the Portuguese vessels on
their passage to India. But, as soon as this fleet was
ready for active operations, it was attacked and destroyed
by the Portuguese navy.

“Thus the Portuguese were masters of an empire on
which the sun never set. It reached the height of its
glory in the reign of John III., from 1521 to 1557. He
was succeeded by his son Dom Sebastian, who made
several expeditions against the Moors in Africa. In
the last of these, he was utterly routed, his army destroyed,
and he perished on the battle–field. This
disaster seemed to initiate the decline of Portugal;
and it continued to run down till it was only the shadow
of its former greatness.

“Concerning Dom Sebastian, a very remarkable
superstition prevails, even at the present time, in
Portugal, to the effect that he will return, resume the
crown, and restore the realm to its former greatness.
For nearly two hundred years this belief has existed,
and was almost universal at one time, not among the
ignorant only, but in all classes of society. It was
claimed that he was not killed in the battle, though his
body was recognized by his page, and that he will come
back as the temporal Messiah of Portugal. Several
persons have appeared who have claimed to be the
prince, the most remarkable of whom turned up at
Venice twenty years after the prince’s presumed death.
He told a very straight story; but the Senate of Venice
banished him, and he was afterwards imprisoned in
Naples and Florence for insisting upon the truth of his
statements. He finally died in Castile; and many believed
that he was not an impostor. Several times have
been fixed for his coming; but it is not likely that he
will be able to put in an appearance, on account of the
two hundred years that have elapsed since he was in
the flesh.

“As Sebastian did not come back from Africa, his
uncle Henry assumed the crown; and at his death, as
he had no direct heirs, Philip II., the Prince of Parma,
and the Duchess of Braganza, claimed the throne, as
did several others; but Philip settled the question by
sending the Duke of Alva into Portugal, and taking
forcible possession of the kingdom. In 1580, therefore,
the whole of the vast dominions I have described
were annexed to the Spanish empire. This connection
lasted for sixty years; and the Portuguese call it ‘the
sixty years’ captivity.’ During this time the people
were never satisfied with their government, and in 1640
got up a revolution, and placed the Duke of Braganza
on the throne, under the title of John IV. This was
the beginning of the house of Braganza, which has held
the throne up to the present time.

“Even in the seventeenth century Portugal had fallen
from her high estate. She had lost part of her possessions
and all her prestige; and from that time till
the present she has had no great weight in European
politics. Some of her colonial territories returned to
the original owners, while others were taken by the
Dutch, the English, and the Spaniards. For two centuries
the most remarkable events in her history have
been misfortunes. In 1755 an earthquake destroyed
half the city of Lisbon, and buried thirty thousand
people under its ruins. It came in two shocks, the
second of which left the city a pile of ruins. Thousands
of men and women fled from the falling walls to the
quays on the river. Suddenly the ground under them
sank with all the crowd upon it; and not one of the
bodies ever came up. At the same time all the boats
and vessels, loaded down with fugitives from the ruin,
were sucked in by a fearful whirlpool; and not a vestige
of them returned to the surface.

“Fifty–five years later came the French Revolution;
in the results of which Portugal was involved. In
1807 she entered into an alliance with Great Britain;
and Napoleon decided to wipe off the kingdom from
the map of Europe. A French army was sent to
Lisbon; and at its approach the Court left for Brazil,
where it remained for several years. An English army
arrived at Oporto the next year; and with these events
began the peninsular war. The struggle lasted till
1812, and many great battles were fought in this kingdom.
The country was desolated by the strife, and the
sufferings of the people were extremely severe. Subscriptions
were raised for them in England and elsewhere;
and Sir Walter Scott wrote ‘The Vision of Don
Roderick’ in aid of the sufferers.

“In 1821 Brazil declared her independence; but it
was not acknowledged by Portugal till 1825. After
fourteen years of absence, the Court—John VI. was
king, having succeeded to the throne while in Brazil—returned
to Portugal. During this period the home
kingdom was practically a colony of Brazil; and the
people were dissatisfied with the arrangement. A constitution
was made, and the king accepted it. He had
left his son as regent of Brazil, and he was proclaimed
emperor of that country as Pedro I. He was the father
of the present emperor, Pedro II.

“John VI. died in 1826. His legitimate successor
was Pedro of Brazil; but he gave the crown to his
daughter Maria. Before she could get possession of it,
Dom Miguel, a younger son of John VI., usurped the
throne. As he did not pay much deference to the constitution,
the people revolted; and civil war raged for
several years. Pedro, having abdicated the crown of
Brazil in favor of his son, came to Portugal in 1832,
to look after the interests of his daughter. He was
made regent,—Maria da Gloria was only thirteen years
old,—and with the help of England, cleaned out the
Miguelists two years later. The little queen was declared
of age at fifteen, and took the oath to support
the constitution. She died in 1853; and her son,
Pedro V., became king when he was fifteen. But he
lived only eight years after his accession, and was
followed by his brother, Luis I., the present king.
There have been several insurrections since the Miguelists
were disposed of, but none since 1851. The
royal family have secured the affections of the people;
for the sons of Maria have proved to be wise and sensible
men. The finances are in bad condition; for the
expense of the government exceeds the income every
year. Now you have heard, and you may go and see
for yourselves.”



CHAPTER XX.

LISBON AND ITS SURROUNDINGS.


The room in the Hotel Braganza occupied by
Sheridan and Murray was an excellent one, so
far as the situation was concerned; for it commanded a
beautiful view of the Tagus and the surrounding country.

“I should think this hotel had been a fort some
time,” said Sheridan, when they rose in the morning.
“Those windows look like port–holes for cannon.”

“It is the house of Braganza, and ought to be a
royal hotel; but it is not very elegantly furnished.
There are no towels here. Where is the bell?”

“I noticed that there was one outside of each room
on this floor. Here is the bell–pull. It is an original
way to fix the bells,” added Sheridan. “The bell–boys
must come up three flights of stairs in order to hear
them ring.”

“But, if the waiter don’t speak English, what will you
ask for?” laughed Murray.

“I have a book of four languages that I picked up in
Madrid,—French, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese,”
said the captain, as he took the volume from his bag.
“Here it is. ‘_Une serviette_,’—that’s a napkin, but it
will do as well,—‘_um guardinapo_.’”

The bell was rung, and a chambermaid answered it.
The word brought the towels, but Sheridan pointed
to the wash–stand; and the pantomime would have answered
just as well as speech, for the woman could see
what was wanting. When they were dressed, Dr. Winstock
came to the door, and invited them to visit the
top of the house, which commanded a view even more
extensive than the window.

“The Tagus runs about east and west here,” said he.
“It is about a mile wide, but widens out into a broad
bay opposite the city. There is no finer harbor in the
world. The old part of the city, between the castle
and the river, was not destroyed by the earthquake.
Between us and the castle is a small region of straight
streets; and this is the part that was destroyed. On
the river below us are the marine arsenal and the
custom–house, with the _Praca do Commercio_ between
them.”

“The what?” asked Murray.

“_Praca_ is the Portuguese for ‘square;’ ‘Commercial
Square’ in English will cover it. This one has several
names; and the English, who are in great force in
Lisbon, call it Black Horse Square. There is very
little to see in Lisbon. Orders have come up for all
hands to be on the quay at nine o’clock, to go on
board the Prince for the lecture; and we must breakfast
first.”

After the lecture the Princes went on shore again.
The doctor with his pupils took a carriage, and proceeded
to “do” the city. Their first point was the
square they had seen from the housetop. On one side
of it was an arch supporting a clock–tower. In the
centre was an equestrian statue of Joseph I., erected
by the inhabitants out of gratitude to the king and
the Marquis of Pombal for their efforts to rebuild the
city after the great earthquake. On the pedestal is an
effigy of the marquis, who was the king’s minister, as
powerful as he was unpopular. The populace cut his
head out of the statue when the king died, but it was
restored fifty years later.

“This street,” said the doctor, indicating the one
over which the ornamental arch was extended, “is the
_Rua Augusta_.”

“I think the Commercial is as fine a square as I
have seen in Europe,” added Sheridan.

“Most people agree with you. Now, if we pass
through the _Rua Augusta_, we shall come to the _Praca
do Rocio_, which is also a beautiful square. There are
three other streets running parallel with this; on one
side is Gold, and on the other Silver Street.”

“They build their houses very high for an earthquaky
country,” said Murray.

“And this is the very spot which was sunk. I suppose
they don’t expect to have another convulsion.”

The carriage proceeded into the square, and then
to another, only a couple of blocks from it, in which
was the fruit–market. It was lined with trees, with a
fountain in the centre. All around it were men and
women selling fruit and other commodities. It was a
lively scene. In this square they saw a Portuguese
cart of the model that was probably used by the
Moors. The wheels do not revolve on the axle, but
the axle turns with the wheels, as in a child’s tin
wagon, and creak and groan fearfully as they do so.
As they passed through the Campo Santa Anna, the
doctor pointed out the _Circo dos Touros_, or bull–ring.

“But a bull–fight here is a tame affair compared with
those in Spain,” he explained. “They do not kill the
bull, nor are any horses gored to death; for the horns
of the animal are tipped with large wooden balls. It is
a rather lively affair, and will answer very well if you
have not seen the real thing. It is said that there are
seven hills in Lisbon, as in Rome; but this is a vanity
of many other cities. There are many hills in Lisbon,
however; and there seems to be a church or a convent
on every one of them. This is the _Passio Publico_; and
it is crowded with people on a warm evening,” continued
the doctor, as they came to a long and narrow park.
“It is the _prado_ of Lisbon.

“I shall ask you to visit only one church in this city,
unless you desire to see more; and this is the one,”
said the doctor, as the carriage stopped at a plain building.
“This is St. Roque. It is said that Dom John
V., when he visited this church, was greatly mortified
at the mean appearance of the chapel of his patron
saint. He ordered one to be prepared in Rome, of the
richest materials. When it was done, mass was said in
it by the pope, Benedict XIV.; and then it was taken
to pieces, and sent to Lisbon, where it was again set up
as you will find it.”

The party entered the church, and the attendant
gave each of them a printed sheet on which was a
description of the chapel. It proved to be a rather
small recess; but the mosaics of the baptism of Christ
in the Jordan by John, and other scriptural designs, are
of the highest order of merit. The floor, ceiling, and
sides are of the same costly work, the richest marbles
and gems being used. The chapel contains eight columns
of lapis–lazuli. The whole of this is said to
have cost fourteen million _crusados_, over eight million
dollars; but others say only one million _crusados_, and
probably the last sum is nearer the truth.

The next day was Sunday; and in the morning the
United States steamer Franklin—the largest in the
service—came into the river. There was a Portuguese
frigate off the marine arsenal; and what with
saluting the flag of Portugal, and the return–salute,
saluting Mr. Lewis the American minister, and saluting
Mr. Diamond the American consul, when each visited
the ship, the guns of the great vessel were blazing
away about all the forenoon. But the students were
proud of the ship; and they did not object to any
amount of gun–firing, even on Sunday. In the afternoon,
some of them went to the cathedral, which was
formerly a mosque, and to some of the other churches.
All hands attended service on board of the American
Prince at eleven.

The next morning the Josephines and Tritonias
started on their tour through the peninsula to Barcelona;
and the ship’s company went on board of the
steamer. Regular discipline was restored; but the
business of sight–seeing was continued for two days
more. The doctor conducted his little party to the
palace of the _Necessidades_.

“What a name for a palace!” exclaimed Murray.
“I suppose that jaw–breaker means ‘necessities.’”

“That is just what it means. Circumstances often
give names to palaces and other things; and it was so
in this case. A weaver brought an image of the Blessed
Virgin from a place on the west coast, from which he
fled to escape the plague. With money he begged of
the pious, he built a small chapel for the image, near
this spot. Like so many of these virgins, it wrought
the most wonderful miracles, healing the sick, restoring
the lame, and opening the eyes of the blind; and many
people came to it in their ‘necessities,’ for relief. Dom
John V. believed in it, and built a handsome church,
with a convent attached to it, for the blessed image.
It had restored his health once, and he built this palace
near it, that it might be handy for his ‘necessities.’
During the long sickness preceding his death, he had
it brought to the palace with royal honors, and kept it
there in state, taking it with him wherever he went.

“This square is the _Fraca Alcantara_,” continued the
doctor, when they came from the palace. “There are
plenty of fountains in the city, nearly every public
square being supplied with one. When I was here
before, there were more water–carriers than now; and
they were all men of Gallicia, as in Madrid. Three
thousand of them used to be employed in supplying
the inhabitants with water; but now it is probably conveyed
into most of the houses in pipes. You can tell
these men from the native Portuguese, because they
carry their burden, whatever it may be, on their shoulders
instead of their heads. A proverb here is to the
effect that God made the Portuguese first, and then
the Gallego to wait upon him. Most of the male
servants in houses come from Gallicia. They are
largely the porters and laborers, for the natives are too
proud to carry burdens: it is too near like the work
of a mule or a donkey. It is said, that when the French
approached Coimbra in the peninsular war, and the
people deserted the city, the men would not carry their
valuables with them, so great was their prejudice
against bundles; and every thing was lost except what
the women could take with them. They could not
disgrace themselves to save their property.”

“No wonder the country is poor,” added Sheridan.

“Now we will cross the bridge, and ride through
Buenos Ayres, where many of the wealthy people live,
and some of the ambassadors,” continued the doctor.

They had a pleasant ride, passing the English cemetery
in which Henry Fielding and Dr. Doddridge were
buried. On the return, they passed the principal cemetery
of the city. It is called the _Prazeres_, which
means “pleasures;” a name it obtained by accident,
and not because it was considered appropriate.

The following day was set apart for an excursion to
Cintra and Mafra, and a sufficient number of omnibuses
were sent to a point on the north–west road; for
the students were to walk over the aqueduct in order
to see that wonderful work. The party ascended some
stone steps to a large hall which contains the reservoir.
It is near the _Praca do Rato_, and not far from the centre
of the city. The party then entered the arched
gallery, eight feet high and five feet wide, through
which the water–ways are led. In the middle is a
paved pathway for foot–passengers. On either side of
it is a channel in the masonry, nine inches wide and
a foot deep in the centre, rounded at the bottom.
It looked like a small affair for the supply of a great
city. The aqueduct is carried on a range of arches
over the valley of the Alcantara, which is the name of
the little stream that flows into the Tagus near the
_Necessidades_. The highest of these arches are two hundred
and sixty–three feet above the river. A causeway
was built on each side of it, forming a bridge to the
villages in the suburbs; but its use was discontinued
because so many people committed suicide by throwing
themselves from the dizzy height, or were possibly
murdered by robbers. This aqueduct was erected by
Dom John V., and it is the pride of the city. The
water comes from springs six miles away.

“Why did we have those water–jars in the hotel if
they have spring–water?” asked Sheridan, as they
walked along the gallery.

“They think the water is better kept in those jars,”
replied Dr. Winstock; “and I believe they are right;
at least, they would be if they would keep the ants out
of them.”

On the other side of the valley the excursionists
loaded themselves into the omnibuses, and were soon
on their way to Cintra, which is fourteen miles from
Lisbon. It is a sort of Versailles, Potsdam, or Windsor,
where the court resides during a part of the year,
and where all the wealthy and fashionable people
spend their summers. It is a beautiful drive, with
many pleasant villages, palaces, country–seats, groves,
and gardens by the way.

“Here we are,” said the doctor to his young companions,
when the carriage in which they had come
stopped before Victor’s Hotel. “Southey said this was
the most blessed spot in the habitable world. Byron
sang with equal enthusiasm; and the words of these
poets have made the place famous in England. Our
American guide–book does not even mention it.”

Cintra is a town of forty–five hundred inhabitants.
It is built on the southern end of the Estrella Mountains,
at an elevation of from eighteen hundred to three
thousand feet. It is only a few miles from the seashore,
and the Atlantic may be seen from its hills.
The party of the doctor first went to the royal palace.
It was the Alhambra of the Moorish monarchs, and has
been a favorite residence of the Christian kings. Dom
Sebastian held his last court here when he left for
Africa. The students wandered through its numerous
apartments, laughed at its magpie saloon, and thought
of the kings who had dwelt within its walls. They
were more pleased with the gardens, though it was
winter; for there was a great deal in them that was
curious and interesting.

The Pena Convent was the next attraction. All convents
have been suppressed in Portugal, as in Spain;
but the Gothic building has been repaired, and it looks
more like a castle than a religious house. Its garden
and grounds must be magnificent in the proper season.
The view from the highest point presents an almost
boundless panorama of country, river, and ocean. The
Moorish castle that commands the town was examined;
and the next thing was the Cork Convent. It is an
edifice built in and on the rock, and contains twenty
cells, each of which is lined with cork to keep out the
dampness of the rock on which it is founded. These
cells are dungeons five feet square, with doors so low
that even the shortest of the students had to stoop to
enter them.

A country–house in Portugal is a _quinta_; and that
of Dom John de Castro, the great navigator and the
viceroy of the Indies, is called _Penha Verda_, and is
still in the hands of his descendants. The gardens
are very pretty; and the first orange–trees set out in
Europe were on this estate. In the garden is the
chapel built by him on his return from the Indies, in
1542, and the rock with six trees on it, which was the
only reward he desired for the conquest of the Island
of Diu, in Hindostan. He died in the arms of St.
Francis Xavier, in 1548, protesting that he had spent
every thing he had in supplying the wants of his comrades
in arms. He declared that he had not a change
of linen, or money enough to buy him a chicken for his
dinner. Most of the enormous wealth of the Indies
had passed through his hands; and he had not stolen
a _vintem_ of it. What an example for modern office–holders!
When he was dead, only one _vintem_—about
two cents—was found in his coffers. His descendants
were prohibited from deriving any profit from the cultivation
of this property.

The rest of the time was given to wandering about
among the estates of the wealthy men, including some
of the foreign ministers, who have _quintas_ in Cintra.

After a lunch, the excursionists proceeded to Mafra,
about ten miles from Cintra. This place contains an
enormous pile of buildings on the plan of the Escurial,
and rather larger, if any thing. It was erected by
John V. to carry out his vow to change the poorest
monastery into the most magnificent one when Heaven
would give him a son. It contains eight hundred and
sixty–six apartments; but the only one of interest to
the students was the audience–chamber, preserved as it
was when the palace was inhabited by Dom John.

It was late in the evening when the Princes returned
to Lisbon; and they were rather glad to learn that the
ship was to sail for Barcelona after breakfast the next
morning.

“I am rather sorry that we do not go to Oporto,”
said the doctor, when the captain informed him of the
order. “It is an old city set on a hillside; but it
would not interest the students any more than Lisbon
has.”

“By the way, doctor, we have not seen any port
wine,” added Sheridan.

“It is not a great sight to look at the casks that contain
port wine. In Porto, not Oporto in Portugal, it is
not the black, logwood decoction which passes under
the name of port in the United States, though it is
darker than ordinary wines. It gets its color and flavor
from the peculiarity of the grapes that grow in the
vicinity of Porto.”

The officers were tired enough to turn in. Early the
next morning the fires were roaring in the furnaces of
the Prince; at a later hour the pipe of the boatswain
was heard; and at half–past eight the steamer was
standing down the river. As the students had not
come to Lisbon from the sea, they all gathered on the
deck and in the rigging to see the surroundings.

“That building on the height is the palace of Ajuda,
where the present king ordinarily resides,” said the
surgeon, when the captain pointed it out to one of the
officers. “A temporary wooden house was built on
that hill for the royal family after the earthquake. It
is very large for this little kingdom, but is only one–third
of the size it was intended to be. It was erected
by John VI.; or, rather, it was begun by him, for it is
not finished.”

“You can see the buildings on the Cintra hills,”
added Murray.

“Yes; and you can see them better from the ocean.”

“That is Belem Castle,” said Sheridan, as the ship
approached the mouth of the river. “I saw a picture
of it in an illustrated paper at home.”

“It is called the Tower of Belem; and there is a
palace with the same name on the shore. This is half
Gothic and half Moorish. It is round, and the style is
unique. What it was built for, no one knows. I suppose
you are not aware how Columbus ascertained that
there was a Western Continent,” added the doctor,
smiling.

“I know what the books say,—that he reasoned it
out in his own mind,” replied the captain.

“You see that town on the north: it is Cascaes, in
which Sanchez, the renowned pilot, was born,” continued
the doctor. “In 1486 Sanchez was blown off
in a storm; and, before he could bring up, he was carried
to an unknown land somewhere in North America. On
his way back he stopped at Madeira, where he was the
guest of Columbus. Somehow the log–book of the
pilot fell into the hands of the great navigator, and
from it he learned that there was an American Continent.”

“Do you believe that story?” asked Sheridan seriously.

“I do not. There are too many difficulties in the
way of it; but it was told me by a Portuguese pilot.”

When the ship had passed the bar, the pilot was discharged,
and the course laid to the south. Just at dark
she was in sight of Cape St. Vincent. The doctor
related the story of its name, which was given to it
because the body of St. Vincent, martyred in Rome,
found its way to this cape, where it was watched over
for a long period by crows. The ship that conveyed it
to Lisbon was followed by these birds; and tame crows
were afterwards kept in the cathedral, where the remains
were deposited, in memory of the miraculous care of
these birds. Three great naval victories have been
won by the English Navy off this cape. Rodney defeated
the Spanish fleet in 1780; Nelson, with fifteen
small vessels, beat twenty–seven Spanish men–of–war, in
1797; and Sir Charles Napier, in 1833, with six vessels,
only one of them a frigate, defeated ten Portuguese
ships, thus putting an end to the Miguel war, and
placing Maria I. on the throne of Portugal. The next
day the Prince passed Cape Trafalgar, where, in 1805,
Nelson gained his great naval victory over the combined
fleets of France and Spain.

On Sunday morning the Prince arrived at Barcelona.



CHAPTER XXI.

A SAFE HARBOR.


“We are in Malaga now; and we have to decide
what to do next,” said Raymond, when they
were shown to their room in the hotel.

“I supposed you would wait till the squadron arrived,”
replied Bark.

“I do not intend to wait. We have talked so much
about your affairs that we have said nothing about
mine,” added Raymond. “My circumstances are very
different from yours. I feel that I have been right all
the time; and I expect that I shall be fully justified in
the end for what I have done in violation of the discipline
of the vessel to which I belong.”

“I know that my case is very different from yours;
but I do not want to part company with you,” said
Bark, with an anxious look on his face.

“I don’t know that it is necessary for us to part.
Though I think it is your duty to join your ship as soon
as convenient, I shall keep out of the way till she is
ready to sail from Spain. The fleet will certainly visit
Cadiz, whether it goes to sea from there or not. For
this reason, I must work my way to Cadiz.”

“And must I stay here till the squadron arrives?”

“Let us look it over.”

“I cannot speak Spanish; and I shall be like a cat
in a strange garret, unless I employ a guide.”

“The right thing for you to do is to return to your
ship.”

“Go back to Barcelona?”

“I should advise you to do that if I were not afraid
the fleet would leave before you could get there. The
Prince will arrive within three days; and, if the Josephines
and Tritonias have returned, the vessels may
sail at once. It is a long, tedious, and expensive journey
by rail; and you could not get there in this time by
any steamer, for they all stop at the ports on the way.
I don’t know where the fleet will put in on its way
south; and you might miss it. On the whole, I think
you had better stay with me.”

“I think so myself,” replied Bark, pleased with the
decision.

“Because you want to think so, perhaps,” laughed
Raymond. “We must be careful that our wishes don’t
override our judgment.”

“But you decided it for me.”

“I think we have settled it right,” added Raymond.
“I want to see something of my native land; and I
shall go to the Alhambra and Seville on the way to
Cadiz. In your case it will make only a difference of
two or three days, whether you join the Tritonia here
or in Cadiz.”

This course was decided upon in the end; and, after
a day in Malaga, they started for Granada. At the
expiration of ten days, they had completed the tour
marked out by Raymond, and were in Cadiz, waiting
for the arrival of the squadron. At the end of a week
it had not come. Another week, and still it did not
appear. Raymond looked over the ship–news in all
the papers he could find in the club–house; but the
last news he could obtain was that the Prince and her
consorts had arrived at Carthagena. In vain he looked
for any thing more. The next port would certainly be
Malaga, unless the fleet put into Almeria, which was
not probable. It was now the middle of January.

“I don’t understand it,” said Raymond. “The
vessels ought to have been here before this time.”

“Perhaps they have gone over into Africa to look
after us,” suggested Bark.

“That is not possible: Mr. Lowington never goes
to hunt up or hunt down runaways; but he may have
gone over there to let the students see something of
Africa,” replied Raymond. “I don’t think he has
gone over to Africa at all.”

“Where is he, then?”

“That’s a conundrum, and I can’t guess it.”

Raymond continued to watch the papers till the first
of February; but still there were no tidings of the
fleet. He had a list of the vessels that had passed
Tarifa, and of those which had arrived at Algiers,
Oran, and Nemours; but they did not contain the
name of the Prince. Then he looked for ships at Alexandria,
thinking the principal might have concluded to
take the students to Egypt; but he found nothing to
support such a possibility.

“I don’t think I shall stay here any longer,” said
Raymond. “We have been here a month.”

“Where will you go?” asked Bark.

“I believe we had better take a steamer, and follow
the coast up to Carthagena, where we had the last news
of the fleet,” replied Raymond. “When we get there
we can ascertain for what port she sailed.”

“Why not go on board of one of the steamers that
come down the coast from Barcelona, and inquire of
the officers if they have seen the squadron?” suggested
Bark, who was always full of suggestions.

“That’s a capital idea!” exclaimed Raymond. “I
wonder we did not think of that idea before.”

Then they had to wait a week for a steamer that had
come down the coast; but one of the line from Oran
had been in port, and they ascertained that the fleet
was not in the port of Malaga. Raymond went to the
captain of the steamer from Barcelona, and was informed
that the squadron was at Carthagena, and had
been there for over a month.

“That accounts for it all,” said Raymond, as they
returned to the boat in which they had boarded the
steamer. “But I can’t imagine why the fleet is staying
all this time in the harbor of Carthagena.”

“Perhaps the Prince has broken some of her machinery,
and they have stopped to repair damages,”
suggested Bark.

“That may be; but they could hardly be a month
mending a break. They could build a new engine in
that time almost.”

“Well, we know where the fleet is; and the next
question is, What are we to do about it?” added Bark,
as they landed on the quay.

They returned to the Hotel de Cadiz, where they
boarded, and went to their room to consider the situation
with the new light just obtained.

“Your course is plain enough, Bark,” said Raymond.
“Mine is not so plain.”

“You think I ought to return to the Tritonia; don’t
you?” added Bark.

“That is my view.”

“But suppose the fleet should sail before I get to
Carthagena?”

“You must take your chance of that.”

“But you will not go back with me?”

“No: it would not be safe for me to do that. It
will be better for my uncle in Barcelona not to know
where I am.”

“But what shall I say to Mr. Lowington, or Mr.
Pelham, when I am asked where you are?” inquired
Bark. “I suppose it is still to be part of my programme
not to lie.”

“Undoubtedly; and I hope you will stick to it as
long as you live.”

“I intend to do so; and you might as well go with
me as to have me tell them where you are.”

“That is true, Bark; and, when you get on board of
the Tritonia, tell all you know about me, and say that
you left me in Cadiz.”

“You might as well go with me.”

“I think not.”

“Then that _alguacil_ will be after you in less than a
week,” said Bark.

“But he will not find me; for I shall not be in Cadiz
when he arrives,” laughed the Spaniard.

“Where are you going?” asked Bark curiously.

“If I don’t tell you, you will not know.”

“I see,” added Bark. “You do not intend to stay
in Cadiz.”

“Of course not.”

“But you may miss the squadron when it goes to
sea.”

“If I do, I cannot help it; and in that case I may
go to New York, or I may go to the West Indies in the
Lopez steamers. I have not made up my mind what I
shall do.”

Raymond wrote a long letter to Scott, and gave it to
his companion to deliver to him. In a few days a
steamer came along that was going to stop at Carthagena.
Bark went on board of her; and, after a hard
parting, he sailed away in her to join the Tritonia,
after an absence of two months.

On the following day Raymond went to Gibraltar in
the Spanish steamer, and remained there a full month,
watching the papers for news of the fleet. At the end
of this time he found the arrival of the squadron at
Malaga. A few days later he saw that the Prince had
passed Tarifa, and then that she had arrived at Cadiz.
But, while he is watching the movements of the steamer,
we will follow her to Barcelona, where she went nearly
three months before.

When the Prince reached her destination, the overland
party had not returned, and were not expected for
two or three days. An excursion to Monserrat was
organized by Dr. Winstock, who declared that it would
be ridiculous to leave Barcelona, when they had time
on their hands, without visiting one of the most remarkable
sights in Spain. The party had to take a
train at seven o’clock in the morning; and then it was
ten before they reached their destination.

Monserrat is a lofty mountain, and takes its name
from a Spanish word that means a “saw,” because
the sharp peaks which cover the elevation resemble
the teeth of that implement. At the _posada_ in the
village Dr. Winstock related the legend of the place.

“This is one of the most celebrated shrines in
Spain,” he began. “Sixty thousand pilgrims used to
visit it every year; but now the various chapels and
monastery buildings are mostly in ruins. In 880 mysterious
lights were seen over a part of the mountain.
The bishop came up to see what they were, and discovered
a small image of the Virgin in one of the numerous
grottos that are found in the mountain. This little
statue was the work of St. Luke, of course, and was
brought to Spain by St. Peter himself. The Bishop of
Barcelona hid it in this cave when the Moors invaded
Catalonia. Bishop Gondemar, who found it, attempted
to carry it to Manresa; but it became so heavy that he
did not succeed. This was a miraculous intimation
from the image that it did not wish to go any farther.
The obliging bishop built a chapel on the spot, and the
image was shrined at its altar. He also appointed a
hermit to watch over it.

“Now, the Devil came to live in one of the caverns
for the purpose of leading this anchorite astray. The
Count of Barcelona had a beautiful daughter whose
name was Riquilda; and the Devil ‘possessed’ her.
She told her father that the evil spirit would not leave
her till ordered to do so by Guarin, the pious custodian
of the image. The count left her in his care. The
hermit was wickedly inclined by the influence of the
Devil, and finally killed the maiden, cutting off her
head, and burying the body. Guarin was immediately
sorry for what he had done, and, fleeing from his evil
neighbor, went to Rome. The pope absolved him with
the penance that he should return to Monserrat on his
hands and knees, and continue to walk like a beast, as
he was morally, and never to look up to heaven which
he had insulted, and never to speak a word. He became
a wild beast in the forest; and Count Wildred
captured the strange animal, and conveyed him to his
palace, where he doubtless became a lion. One day
the creature was brought in to be exhibited to the
count’s guests at a banquet. A child cried out to him,
‘Arise, Juan Guarin! thy sins are forgiven!’ Then he
arose in the form of the hermit; and the count pardoned
him, having the grace to follow the example set
him.

“But the end was not yet; for, when the count and
Guarin went to search for the body, Riquilda appeared
to them alive and well, though she had been buried
eight years, but with a red ring around her neck, like a
silk thread, rather ornamental than otherwise. The
count founded a nunnery at once; and his daughter
was made the lady superior, while Guarin became the
_mayor–domo_ of the establishment. In time the nuns
were removed, and monks took their places; and the
miracles performed by the image attracted thousands
to its shrines. The treasury of this Virgin was immense
at one time, being valued at two hundred
thousand ducats; but most of it was carried away by
the French. The scenery, you see, is wild and grand,
and I think is more enjoyable than the relics and the
grottos.”

For hours the students wandered about the wild
locality. They saw the wonderful image; and those
who had any taste for art thought that St. Luke, if he
made the little statue, had not done himself any great
credit. They visited the thirteen hermitages, and explored
the grottos till they had had enough of this sort
of thing. An hour after dark they were on board of
the Prince. In two days more the Josephines and
Tritonias arrived; and on Wednesday the squadron
sailed for the South.

During his stay in port, the principal had seen Don
Francisco, and told him all he knew in regard to the
fugitive. The lawyer was satisfied that Mr. Lowington
had done nothing to keep the young Don out of the
way of his guardian; and neither of them could suggest
any means to recover possession of him. As yet no
letter from Don Manuel in New York had been received.

Favored by a good wind, the squadron arrived at
Valencia in thirty hours. After a night’s sleep, all
hands were landed at the port of the city, which the
reader knows is Grao. The professor of geography and
history, while the party were waiting for the vehicles
that were to convey them to the city, gave the students
a description of Valencia. It is an ancient city, founded
by the Phœnicians, inhabited by the Romans for five
centuries, captured by the Moors and held by them
about the same time, though the Cid took the town, and
held it for five years. At his death, in 1099, the Moors
came down upon the city; and the body of the Cid was
placed on his horse, and marched out of the city. The
Moslems opened for it; and the Castilians passed
through their army in safety, the enemy not daring to
attack them. It was not such a victory for the
Spaniards as some of the chronicles describe; for the
Christians had to abandon the place. It was taken
from the Moors in 1238, and became a part of Aragon,
to be united with the other provinces of Spain by the
union of Ferdinand and Isabella. The Moriscoes—the
Moors who had been allowed to remain in Spain
after the capture of Granada—made a great city of it,
building its palaces and bridges; but they were driven
out of the peninsula by Philip II. They had cultivated
its vicinity, and made a paradise of the province; and
their departure was almost a death–blow to the prosperity
of the city.

Though the modern kings of Spain have not spared
its memorials of the past, it is still an interesting city.
It has a population of nearly one hundred and fifty
thousand, making it the fourth city of Spain. It is one
of the most industrious cities of the peninsula; and its
manufactures of silk and velvet are quite extensive.
The city contains nothing very different from other
Spanish towns. The students wandered over the
most of it, looking into a few of the churches, nearly
every one of which has a wonder–working image of the
Virgin, or of St. Vincent, who is the patron saint of
Valencia.

The next day the squadron sailed, and put into Alicante
after a twenty–four hours’ run; the wind being so
light that the steamer had to tow her consorts nearly
the whole distance. The students went on shore; but
the old legend, “Nothing to see,” was passed around
among them. Alicante is an old Spanish town, composed
of white houses, standing at the foot of a high
hill crowned with an old fortress. The lines, walls,
covered ways, and batteries, seem to cover one side of
the elevation. Those who cared to do it climbed to
the top of the hill, and were rewarded with a fine view
of the sea and the country.

“When the Cid had captured Valencia,” said Dr.
Winstock to his pupils, as they stood on the summit of
the hill, “he conducted Ximine, his wife, to the top of
a tower, and showed her the country he had conquered.
It was called the _Huerta_, which means a large orchard.
The land had been irrigated by the industrious and
enterprising Moors, and bore fruit in luxurious abundance.
The _vega_, or plain, which we see, is scarcely
less fertile; and the region around us is perhaps the
most productive in Spain. Twelve miles south is
Elche, which is filled with palm–plantations. We see
an occasional palm and fig tree here.”

Mr. Lowington did not favor excursions into the
country when it could be avoided; but the doctor
insisted that the students ought to visit Elche, and the
point was yielded. They made the excursion in four
separate parties; for comfortable carriages could not
be obtained to take them all at once. The road was
dry and dusty at first, and the soil poor; but the aspect
of the country soon changed. Palms began to appear
along the way, and soon the landscape seemed to be
covered with them.

“There is something to see here, at any rate,” said
Sheridan, as the party approached the town.

“I thought you would enjoy it,” replied the doctor.
“This is the East transplanted in Spain.”

“These palms are fifty feet high,” added Murray,
measuring them with his eye.

“Some of them are sixty; but fifty is about the
average. Now we are in the palm–forest, which is said
to contain forty thousand trees. This region is irrigated
by the waters of the Vinalopo River, which are
held back by a causeway stretched across the valley
above. These plantations are very profitable.”

“But all palms are not like these,” said Murray.
“My uncle has seen palms over a hundred feet high.”

“There are nearly a hundred kinds of palm, bearing
different sorts of fruit. These are date–palms; and
one of them bears from one to two hundred pounds of
dates.”

“And they sell at from ten to fifteen cents a pound
at home,” added Sheridan.

“But for not more than one or two cents a pound
here,” continued the doctor. “I suppose you have
learned about sex in plants, which is a modern discovery;
but it is most strikingly illustrated in these
date–palms. Only the female tree bears fruit. The
male palm bears a flower whose pollen was shaken over
the female trees by the Moors long before any thing
was known about sex in plants; and the practice is
continued by their successors. But the male palm
yields a profit in addition to supplying the orchard with
pollen. Its leaves are dried, and made into fans, crowns,
and wreaths, and sold for use on Palm Sunday. This
town gets seventy thousand dollars for its dates, and
ten thousand for its palm–leaves.”

“When are the dates picked?” asked Sheridan.

“In November. The men climb the trees by the
aid of ropes passed around the trunk and the body. I
will ask one of them to ascend a tree for your benefit.”

The excursionists reached the village, which is in the
middle of the forest of palms. It was very Oriental
in its appearance. The people were swarthy, and wore
a peculiar costume, in which were some remnants of
the Moorish fashion. The church has its image of the
Virgin, who dresses very richly, and owns a date–plantation
which pays the expenses of her wardrobe.

The students were so delighted with the excursion
that they made a rollicking time of it on the way back
to Alicante, and astonished the peasants by their lively
demonstrations. The road was no road at all, but
merely a path across the country, and was very rough
in places. The cottages of the vicinity were thatched
with palm–leaves in some instances. At the door of
many of them was a hamper of dates, from which any
one could help himself, and leave a _cuarto_ in payment
for the feast. It is not watched by the owner, for the
Spaniard here is an honest man. The students frequently
availed themselves of these hampers when the
doctor had explained to them the custom of the country;
but he exhorted them to be as honest as the
natives.

The squadron remained at anchor in the port of Alicante
four days; and, when the students of the first
party had told their story, the trip to Elche was the
most popular excursion since they left Italy.

“Which is the best port on the east coast of Spain,
doctor?” asked the principal, as they sat on the deck
of the Prince while the third party had gone to Elche.

“I shall answer you as the admiral did Philip II.,—Carthagena,”
replied the doctor.

“I find that the students are tired of sight–seeing,
and the lessons have been much neglected of late,”
continued the principal. “I think we all need a rest.
I have about made up my mind to lie up for three
months in some good harbor, recruit the students, and
push along their studies.”

“I think that is an excellent plan. April will be a
better month to see the rest of Spain than the middle
of winter.”

The plan was fully discussed and adopted; and on
the following day the squadron sailed for Carthagena,
and having a stiff breeze was at anchor in its capacious
harbor at sunset. The students were not sorry to take
the rest; for the constant change of place for the last
six months had rendered a different programme acceptable.
There was nothing in the town to see; and the
harbor was enclosed with hills, almost landlocked, and
as smooth as a millpond.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE FRUITS OF REPENTANCE.


The mail for the squadron—forwarded by the
principal’s banker in Barcelona—had been
following the fleet down the coast for a week, but was
received soon after it anchored at Carthagena. Among
the letters was one from Don Manuel, Raymond’s
uncle in New York. He was astonished that his
nephew had ventured into Spain, when he had been
cautioned not to do so. He was glad he had left his
vessel, and hoped the principal would do nothing to
bring him back. It was extremely important that his
nephew should not be restored to his uncle in Barcelona,
for reasons which Henry would explain if necessary.
If the fugitive was, by any mischance, captured
by Don Alejandro or his agents, Don Manuel wished
to be informed of the fact at once by cable; and
it would be his duty to hasten to Spain without
delay.

Mr. Lowington was greatly astonished at this letter,
and handed it to Dr. Winstock. It seemed to indicate
that a satisfactory explanation could be given of the
singular conduct of the second master of the Tritonia,
and that he would be able to justify his course.

“That is not the kind of letter I expected to receive,”
said the principal, when the surgeon had read it.

“There is evidently some family quarrel which Don
Manuel does not wish to disclose to others,” replied
the doctor.

“But Don Manuel ought to have informed me
that he did not wish to have his nephew taken into
Spain.”

“We can’t tell about that till we know all the facts
in the case. I have no doubt that the uncle in Barcelona
is the legal guardian of Enrique Raimundo,” continued
the doctor.

“Then how did the boy come into the possession of
Don Manuel?”

“I don’t know; but he seems to be actuated by very
strong motives, for he is coming to Spain if the young
man falls into the hands of his legal guardian. I don’t
understand it; but I am satisfied that it is a case for
the lawyers to work upon.”

“I think not; for Don Manuel seems to believe that
the safety of his nephew can only be secured by keeping
him out of Spain; in other words, that he has no case
which he is willing to take into a Spanish court.”

“Perhaps you are right; but it looks to me like a
fortune for the lawyers to pick upon; though I must
say that Don Francisco is one of the most gentlemanly
and obliging attorneys I ever met, and seems to ask
for nothing that is not perfectly fair.”

They could not solve the problem; and it was no
use to discuss it. The principal had done all he could
to recover the second master of the Tritonia, or rather
to assist the detective who was in search of him. The
last news of him, brought by Bill Stout, was that the
fugitive had gone to Africa. The _alguacil_ had gone to
Africa, but Raimundo had left before he arrived. He
was unable to obtain any clew to him, for Raymond
looked like Spaniards in general; and in the dress he
had put on in Valencia he did not look like Raymond
in the uniform of an officer. While the fugitive was
sunning himself in Gibraltar, the pursuer was looking
for him in Italy and Egypt. The principal was confident
he had gone to the East, for runaways would not
expose themselves to capture till their money was all
gone. Besides, some of the officers of the Tritonia
said that Raymond had often expressed a desire to visit
Egypt and the Holy Land.

The affairs of the squadron went along smoothly for
six weeks. The students were studious, now that they
had nothing to distract their attention. Bill Stout staid
in the brig till he promised to learn his lessons, and
then was let out. He did not like the brig after the
trap in the floor was screwed down so that he could not
raise it. Ben Pardee and Lon Gibbs fell out with him;
first, because he had run away without them, and, second,
because he was a disagreeable and unreasonable
fellow. Bill did study his lessons in order to keep out
of the brig; but he was behind every class in the vessel,
and his ignorance was so dense that the professors
were disgusted with him. It was about six weeks after
the squadron took up its quarters in the harbor of Carthagena,
that a shore–boat came up to the gangway, and
Bark Lingall stepped upon the deck of the Tritonia.
Of course his heart beat violently; but he came back
like the Prodigal Son. He was wiser and better than
when he left, and he was ready to submit cheerfully to
the penalty of his offence; and he expected to be committed
to the brig as soon as he showed himself to the
principal.

It was nearly dark when the prodigal boarded the
Tritonia, and Scott was in charge of the anchor watch
which had been set for the night. He looked at Bark
as he came up the side; and, though the fugitive had
changed his dress, he recognized him at once.

“Lingall!” exclaimed Scott. “You haven’t made a
mistake as Stout did; have you?”

“I don’t know what mistake Stout made, except the
mistake of running away; and I made that one with
him,” replied Bark.

“Stout came on board of the Prince at Lisbon, thinking
she was a steamer bound to England,” laughed
Scott.

“I could not mistake the Tritonia for a steamer,
even if I wanted to go to England.”

“Where did you leave Raimundo?” asked the
officer anxiously.

“Here is a letter from him for you; and that will
explain it all. I wish to see the vice–principal,” continued
Bark.

Mr. Pelham was summoned, and he gave a good–natured
greeting to the returned fugitive, not doubting
that he had spent all his money in riotous living, and
had come back because he could not travel any more
without funds.

“Money all gone, Lingall?” asked the vice–principal,
who, like his superior, believed that satire was an
effective means of discipline at times.

“No, sir: I have over fifty pounds left,” replied
Bark, more respectfully than he had formerly been in
the habit of speaking, even to the principal.

“What did you come back for, then?” demanded
Mr. Pelham.

“Because I am sorry for what I have done, and ask
to be forgiven,” answered Bark, taking off his hat, and
fixing his gaze upon the deck, while his bosom was
swelling with emotion.

The vice–principal was touched by his manner. He
had stood in the same position before the principal
five years before; and he indulged in no more light
words. He took the prodigal down into his cabin, so
that whatever passed between them might have no
witnesses.

“Do you come back voluntarily, Lingall?” asked
the vice–principal in gentle tones.

“I do, sir: I left Cadiz three days ago. I had been
waiting there a month for the squadron to arrive. We
did not know where it was, for the last we could learn
of it was its arrival in Carthagena.”

“You say we: were you not alone?”

“No, sir: Raymond was with me.”

“Who is Raymond?”

“Raimundo: he has translated his name into English,
and now prefers to be called by that name.”

“And you left him in Cadiz?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is he there now?”

“I don’t know, sir; but I think not. He did not
tell me where he was going, and I did not wish to
know.”

“I see,” added Mr. Pelham. “I hope he will not
be taken by those who are after him.”

Bark looked up, utterly astonished at this last
remark; for he supposed the sympathies of the officers
were with Don Francisco, as they had been at the time
he left the Tritonia. As Mr. Pelham was in the confidence
of the principal in regard to the affair of the
second master, he had been permitted to read the
letter from Don Manuel; and this fact will explain
the remark.

“Raymond does not know from what port the
squadron will sail for the islands; but he wants to
return to his ship as soon as he can,” added Bark.

As Raymond’s case seemed to be of more interest
than his own, Bark told all he knew about his late
companion; but no one was any wiser in regard to his
present hiding–place.

“Where have you been all this time?” asked the
vice–principal, when his curiosity was fully satisfied
concerning Raymond.

“I have been a good deal worse than you think I
have; and I wish that running away was the worst
thing I had on my conscience,” replied Bark, in answer
to this question.

“I am sorry to hear you say that; but, whatever you
have done, it is better to make a clean breast of it,”
added Mr. Pelham.

“That is what I am going to do, sir,” replied Bark;
and he prefaced his confession with what had passed
between Raymond and himself when he decided upon
his course of action.

He related the substance of his conversations with
Bill Stout at the beginning of the conspiracy, and then
proceeded to inform the vice–principal what had occurred
while they were in the brig together, including the setting
of the fire in the hold.

“Do you mean to say that Stout intended to burn
the vessel?” demanded Mr. Pelham, astonished and
shocked at the revelation.

“He and I so intended; and we actually started the
fire three or four times,” answered Bark, detailing all
the particulars.

“You are very tender of Stout—the villain!” exclaimed
the vice–principal. “It appears that he proposed
the plan, and set the fire, while you assented to
the act.”

“I don’t wish to make it out that I am not just as
guilty as Stout.”

“I understand you perfectly,” added Mr. Pelham.
“The villain pretended to be penitent when he came
back, and told lies enough to sink the ship, if they had
had any weight with me. Mr. Marline reported to me
that there had been fire in the old stuff in the hold. I
thought there was some mistake about it; but it is all
plain enough now.”

Bark proceeded with his narrative of the escape,
which had been before related by Bill Stout; but the
two stories differed in some respects, especially in respect
to the conduct of Bill in the affray with the Catalonian
in the felucca. He told about his wanderings
and waitings with Raymond, which explained why he
had not come back before.

“Stout said that you and he pulled the boatman down
when Raimundo missed him with the tiller,” said Mr.
Pelham.

“I mean to tell the truth, if I know how; but Bill
did not lift his finger to do any thing, not even after
Raymond and I had the fellow down,” replied Bark.
“Raymond called him a coward on the spot; and I
wish he were here to tell you so, for I know you would
believe him.”

“And I believe you, Lingall.”

At this moment there was a knock at the state–room
door.

“Come in,” said the principal; and Scott opened
the door at this summons.

“I have a letter from Mr. Raimundo, sir, in which
he has a great deal to say about Lingall,” said the
lieutenant. “I thought you might wish to know what
he says before you settle this case. I will leave it
with you, sir; for there is nothing private in it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scott,” replied the vice–principal,
as he took the letter.

He opened and read the letter. It related entirely
to the affairs of Lingall, and was an earnest plea for
his forgiveness. It recited all the incidents of the
cruise in the felucca, and the particulars of Bark’s
reformation. The writer added that he hoped to be
able to join his ship soon; and should do so, if he
could, when she was out of Spanish waters.

“Now, Lingall, you may go on board of the Prince
with me,” said Mr. Pelham, when he had finished reading
the letter.

A boat was manned, and they were pulled to the
steamer. The whole story was gone over again; and
Mr. Lowington read the letter of Raymond. The
principal and Mr. Pelham had a long consultation
alone; and then Bark was ordered to return to his duty,
without so much as a reprimand. Bark was bewildered
at this unexpected clemency. He was satisfied that
it was Raymond’s letter that saved him, because it
assured the principal of the thorough reformation of
the culprit. The vice–principal told him afterwards,
that it was as much his own confession of the conspiracy,
which was not even suspected on board, as it
was the letter, that produced the leniency in the minds
of the authorities. The boat that brought Mr. Pelham
and Bark back to the Tritonia immediately conveyed
Bill Stout, in charge of Peaks, to the Prince, where he
was committed to the brig, without any explanation of
the charge against him.

Bill did not know what to make of this sharp discipline;
and he felt very much like a martyr, for he
believed he had been “a good boy,” as he called the
chaplain’s lambs. He had time to think about it
when the bars separated him from the rest of his shipmates.
The news that Bark Lingall had returned was
circulated through the Tritonia before he left the vessel.
He could only explain his present situation by
the supposition that Bark had told about the conspiracy
to burn the vessel. This must be the reason why
he was caged in the Prince rather than in the Tritonia.

For three days the stewards brought him his food;
and for an hour, each forenoon, the big boatswain
walked him up and down the deck to give him his
exercise; but it was in vain that he asked them what
he was caged for. As none of these officials knew,
none of them could tell him. On the fourth day of his
confinement, a meeting of the faculty was held for consultation
in regard to the affairs of the squadron. This
was the high court of the academy, and consisted of
the principal, the vice–principals, the chaplain, the surgeon,
and the professors,—fourteen in all. Though
the authority of the principal was supreme, he preferred
to have this council to advise him in important
matters.

When the faculty had assembled, Peaks brought Bill
Stout into the cabin, and placed him at the end of the
long table at which the members were seated. He was
awed and impressed by the situation. The principal
stated that the culprit was charged with attempting to
set fire to the Tritonia, and asked what he had to say
for himself. Bill made haste to deny the charge with
all his might; but he might as well have denied his
own existence. Raymond’s letter describing what he
saw in the hold was read, but the parts relating to Bark
were omitted. Bill supposed the letter was the only
evidence against him, and the writer had spared Bark
because he was a friend. Bill declared that Raymond
hated him, and had made up this story to injure him.
He had been trying to do his duty, and no complaint
had been made against him since the fleet had been at
anchor.

The chaplain thought a student ought not to be condemned
on the evidence of one who had run away
from his vessel. As Bill would not be satisfied, it
became necessary to call Bark Lingall. The reformed
seaman gave his evidence in the form of a confession;
and, when he had finished his story, no one doubted
his sincerity, or the truth of his statement. By a unanimous
vote of the faculty, approved by the principal,
Bill Stout was dismissed from the academy as one
whom it was not safe to have on board any of the
vessels, and as one whose character was too bad to
allow him to associate with the students. A letter to
his father was written; and he was sent home in charge
of the carpenter of the Josephine, who was about to
return to New York on account of the illness of his
son.

The particulars of this affair were kept from the
students; for the principal did not wish to have them
know that any one had attempted to burn one of the
vessels, lest it might tempt some other pupil to seek a
dismissal by the same means. Bill Stout was glad to
be sent away, even in disgrace.

Early in March Mr. Lowington received a letter from
Don Francisco, asking if any thing had been heard
from Raymond, and informing him that his client Don
Alejandro was dangerously sick. The principal, since
he had received the letter from Don Manuel, had declined
to assist in the search for the absentee, though
he had not communicated his views to the lawyer.
The detective had not returned from his tour in the
East, and was doubtless willing to continue the search
as long as he was paid for it. The principal was “a
square man;” and he informed Don Francisco that his
views on the subject had changed, and that he hoped
the fugitive would not be captured. Ten days after
this letter was answered came Don Francisco himself.
He went on board of the Prince; and, in spite of the
reply of the principal, he was as cordial and courteous
as ever.

“I suppose you have received my letter, declining to
do any thing more to secure the return of the absentee,”
Mr. Lowington began, when they were seated in
the grand saloon.

“I have received it,” replied Don Francisco; “but
now all the circumstances of the case are changed, and
I am confident that you will do all you can to find the
young man. Your letter came to me on the day before
the funeral of my client.”

“Then Don Alejandro is dead!” exclaimed the
principal, startled by the intelligence.

“He died in the greatest agony and remorse,” added
the lawyer. “He was sick four weeks, and suffered
the most intense pain till death relieved him. He confessed
to me, when I went to make his will, that he had
intended to get his nephew out of the way in some
manner, before the boy was of an age to inherit his
father’s property. Don Manuel had charged him with
this purpose before he left Spain, and had repeated the
charge in his letters. He confessed because he wanted
his brother’s forgiveness, as well as that of the Church.
He wished me to see that justice was done to his
nephew. When I wrote you that last letter, my client
desired to see the young man, and to implore his forgiveness
for the injury he had done him as a child, and
for that he had meditated.”

“This is a very singular story,” said Mr. Lowington.
“You did not give me the reason for which Don Alejandro
wished to see his nephew.”

“I did not know it myself. What I have related
transpired since I wrote that letter. The case is one
of the remarkable ones; but I have known a few just
like it,” continued the lawyer. “My client was told
by the physicians that he could not recover. Such an
announcement to a Christian who has committed a
crime—and to meditate it is the same thing in the eye
of the Church, though not of the law—could not but
change the whole current of his thoughts. I know that
it caused my client more suffering than his bodily ailments,
severe as the latter were. The terrors of the
world to come haunted him; and he believed, that, if
he did not do justice to that young man before he died,
he would suffer for his crime through all the ages of
eternity; and I believe so too. I think he confessed
the crime to me, after he had done so to the priest,
because he believed his son, who had been in his confidence,
would carry out his wicked purpose after his
father was gone; for this son would inherit the estate as
the next heir under the will of the grandfather.”

“I can understand how things appear to a man as
wicked as your client was, when death stares him in the
face,” added Mr. Lowington.

“Now the young man is wanted. He is not of age,
but he ought to have a voice in the selection of his
guardian.”

“I don’t know where he is under the altered circumstances,
any more than I did before,” replied the
principal; “but I am willing to make an effort to find
him. Is he in any danger from the son of your late
client?”

“None at all: the son denies that he ever had any
knowledge of the business; and, since the confession
of the father, the son would not dare to do any thing
wrong. Besides, my client put all the property in my
hands before he died.”

The next thing was to find Raymond. He might see
the announcement of the death of his uncle in the
newspapers; but, if he did not, he would be sure to
keep out of the way till the squadron was ready to sail
for the “isles of the sea.” Mr. Lowington sent for
Bark Lingall, who had by this time established his
character as one of the best–behaved and most earnest
students in his vessel. The principal rehearsed the
events that made it desirable to find Raymond.

“Do you think you could find him, Lingall?” asked
Mr. Lowington.

“I think I might if I could speak Spanish,” replied
Bark modestly.

“You and Scott are the only students who know his
history; and he would allow you to approach him, while
he would keep out of the way of any other person connected
with the squadron. We shall sail for Malaga
to–morrow; and you shall have a courier to do your
talking for you,” continued the principal.

Bark was pleased with the mission. He was furnished
with a letter from Don Francisco; and, as he
had some idea of what Raymond’s plans were, he was
hopeful of success. The squadron sailed the next day,
and arrived at Malaga in thirty hours.



CHAPTER XXIII.

GRANADA AND THE ALHAMBRA.


When the academy fleet arrived at Malaga, the
principal decided to follow the plan he had
adopted at Barcelona, though on a smaller scale, and
send the Josephines and Tritonias to Cadiz, while the
Princes proceeded by rail to the same place, seeing
Granada, Cordova, and Seville on the way. As soon as
the transfer could be made, the steamer sailed with its
company of tourists; and her regular crew were domiciled
at the Hotel de la Alameda, in Malaga.

“Here we are again,” said Sheridan, as the party of
the doctor came together again at the hotel.

“I feel more like looking at a cathedral than I
did when we were sight–seeing in December,” added
Murray.

“You have not many more cathedrals to see,”
replied the doctor. “There is one here; but, as this is
Saturday, we will visit it to–morrow. Suppose we take
a walk on the Alameda, as this handsome square is
called.”

It is a beautiful bit of a park, with a fountain at each
end; but it was so haunted with beggars that the tourists
could not enjoy it. It was fresh and green, and
bright with the flowers of early spring.

“What an abomination these beggars are!” exclaimed
Sheridan, as a pair of them, one with his eyes
apparently eaten out with sores, leaning on the shoulder
of another seemingly well enough, saluted them
with the usual petition. “It makes me sick to look at
them.”

Murray gave the speaker two _reales_; but they would
not go till the others had contributed. A little farther
along they came to a blind man, who had stationed
himself by a bridge, and held out his hand in silence.

“That man deserves to be encouraged for holding
his tongue,” said the captain, as he dropped a _peseta_
into the extended hand. “Most of them yell and
tease so that one don’t feel like giving.”

The blind beggar called down the blessing of the
Virgin upon the donor, in a gentle and devout tone.
But he seemed to be an exception to all the other mendicants
in Malaga. As the captain said, many of them
were most disgusting sights; and they pointed out
their ailments as though they were proud of them.

“This is a commercial city, and there is not much to
see in it,” said the doctor, as they returned to the
hotel. “Its history is but a repetition of that of nearly
all the cities of Spain. It was a place of great trade
in the time of the Moors: it is the fifth city of Spain,
ranking next to Valencia. You saw the United States
flag on quite a number of vessels in the port; and it
has a large trade with our country. Wine, raisins,
oranges, lemons, and grapes are the principal exports.”

The next day most of the students visited the cathedral,
where they heard mass, which was attended by a
battalion of soldiers, with a band which took part in
the service. Early on Monday morning the tourists
started for Granada, taking the train at quarter past
six o’clock. The ride was exceedingly interesting; for
the country between Malaga and Cordova is very fertile,
though a small portion of it is a region abounding
in the wildest scenery. The first part of the journey
was in the midst of orange–orchards and vineyards.

“What is that sort of an inclined plane?” asked
Sheridan, pointing to a stone structure like one side of
the roof of a small house. “I have noticed a great
many of them here and near Alicante.”

“You observe that they all slope to the south,”
replied the doctor. “They are used in drying raisins.
This is a grape as well as an orange country. Raisins
are dried grapes; and, when you eat your plum–pudding
in the future, you will be likely to think of the country
around Malaga, for the nicest of them come from
here.”

“This is a wild country,” said Murray, after they
had been nearly two hours on the train.

“We pass through the western end of the Sierra
Nevada range. Notice this steep rock,” added the
doctor, as they passed a lofty precipice. “It is ‘Lovers’
Rock.’”

“Of course it is,” laughed Murray; “and they
jumped down that cliff; and there is not a precipice
in the world that isn’t a lovers’ leap.”

“I think you are right. In this case it was a Spanish
knight, and a Moorish maiden whose father didn’t like
the match.”

The travellers left the train at Bobadilla, and proceeded
by rail to Archidona. Between this place and
Loxa the railroad was not then built; and the distance—about
sixteen miles—had to be accomplished by
diligence. Half a dozen of these lumbering vehicles
were in readiness, with their miscellaneous teams of
horses and mules all hitched on in long strings. This
part of the journey was likely to be a lark to the
students; and they piled into and upon the carriages
with great good–nature. The doctor and his pupils
secured seats on the outside.

“This is the _coupé_ in Spain, but it is the _banquette_ in
Switzerland,” said he, when they were seated. “It is
called the dickey in England.”

“But the box for three passengers, with windows in
the front of the diligence, is always the _coupé_,” added
Sheridan.

“Not in Spain: that is called the _berlina_ here. The
middle compartment, holding four or six, is _el interior_;
and _la rotundo_, in the rear, like an omnibus, holds six.
The last is used by the common people because it is
the cheapest.”

“But this seat is not long enough for four,” protested
Murray, when the conductor directed another officer to
mount the _coupé_”.

“Come up, commodore: I think we can make room
for you,” added Sheridan.

“This is a long team,” said Commodore Cantwell,
when they were seated,—“ten mules and horses.”

“I have travelled with sixteen,” added the doctor.

On a seat wide enough for two, under the windows
of the _berlina_, the driver took his place. His reins
were a couple of ropes reaching to the outside ends of
the bits of the wheel–horses. He was more properly
the brakeman, since he had little to do with the team,
except to yell at the animals. On the nigh horse or
mule, as he happened to be, rode a young man who
conducted the procession. He is called the _delantero_.
The _zagal_ is a fellow who runs at the side of the
animals, and whips them up with a long stick. The
_mayoral_ is the conductor, who is sometimes the driver;
but in this case he seemed to have the charge of all
the diligences.

“Oja! oja!” (o–ha) yelled the driver. The _zagal_
began to hammer the brutes most unmercifully, and the
team started at a lively pace.

“That’s too bad!” exclaimed Sheridan, when he saw
the _zagal_ pounding the mules over the backbone with
his club, which was big enough to serve for a bean–pole.

“I agree with you, captain, but we can’t help ourselves,”
added the doctor. “That villain will keep it
up till we get to the end of our journey.”

The _dilijencia_ passed out of the town, and went
through a wild country with no signs of any inhabitants.
The road was as bad as a road could be, and
was nothing but a track beaten over the fields, passing
over rocks and through gullies and pools of water.
Carts, drawn by long strings of mules or donkeys,
driven by a peasant with a gun over his shoulder, were
occasionally met; but the road was very lonely. Half
way to Loxa they came to a river, over which was a
narrow bridge for pedestrians; but the _dilijencia_ had
to ford the stream.

At this point the horses and mules were changed;
and some of the students went over the bridge, and
walked till they were overtaken by the coaches. At
three o’clock they drove into Loxa. The streets of
the town are very steep and very narrow; and the _zagal_
had to crowd the team over to the opposite side, in
order to get the vehicle around the corners. The
students on the outside could have jumped into the
windows of the houses on either side, and people on
the ground often had to dodge into the doorways, to
keep from being run over. From this place the party
proceeded to Granada by railroad. Crossing a part of
this city, which is a filthy hole, the party went to the
Hotel Washington Irving, and the Hotel Siete Suelos,
both of which are at the very gate of the Alhambra.

The doctor and his friends were quartered at the
former hotel, which is a very good one, but more expensive
than the _Siete Suelos_ on the other side of the
street. They are both in the gardens of the Alhambra,
the avenues of which are studded with noble elms, the
gift of the Duke of Wellington.

“And this is the Alhambra,” said Capt. Sheridan, as
the trio came out for a walk, after dinner.

“What is the meaning of the name of that hotel?”

“_Hotel de los Siete Suelos_,—the hotel of the seven
stories, or floors.”

“But it hasn’t more than four or five.”

“Haven’t you read Irving’s Alhambra? He mentions
a tower with this name, in which was the gate
where Boabdil left the Alhambra for the last time. It
was walled up at the request of the Moor.”

The party walked about the gardens till it was dark.
The next morning, before the ship’s company were
ready, the doctor and the three highest officers entered
the walled enclosure.

“This is the Tower of Justice,” said the doctor, as
they paused at the entrance. “It is so called because
the Moorish kings administered the law to the people
here. You see the hand and the key carved over the
door. If you ask the grandson of Mateo Ximenes,
who is a guide here, what it means, he will tell you
the Moors believed that, when this hand reached
down and took the key, the Alhambra might be captured;
but not till then. Then he will tell you that
they were mistaken; and give glory to the Spaniards.
The key was the Moslem symbol for wisdom and
knowledge; and the hand, of the five great commandments
of their religion.”

The party entered the tower, in which is an altar,
and passed into the square of the cisterns. Charles V.
began to build a huge palace on one side of it; but
the fear of earthquakes induced him to desist. He
destroyed a portion of the Moorish palace to make
room for it. The visitors entered an office where they
registered their names, paid a couple of _pesetas_, and
received a plan of the palace. The first names in the
book are those of Washington Irving and his Russian
companion.

“This is the Court of the Myrtles,” said the doctor,
as they entered the first and largest court of the
palace. “It is also called ‘the Court of Blessing,’
because the Moors believed water was a blessing; and
this pond contains a good deal of it.”

“My guide–book does not call it by either of these
names,” said Commodore Cantwell, who had Harper’s
Guide in his hand. “It says here it is ‘the _Patio de la
Alberca_,’ or fish–pond.”

“And so says Mr. Ford, who is the best authority on
Spain. We must not try to reconcile the differences in
guide–books. We had better call it after the myrtles
that surround the tank, and let it go at that. This
court is the largest of the palace, though it is only one
hundred and forty by seventy–five feet. But the Alhambra
is noted for its beauty, and not for its size. We
will now pass into the Court of the Lions,” continued
the doctor, leading the way. “This is the most celebrated,
as it is the most beautiful, part of the palace.”

“I have seen many pictures of it, but I supposed it
was ten times as large as it is,” said Sheridan.

“It is about one hundred and twenty by seventy feet.
There are one hundred and twenty–four columns around
the court. Now we must stop and look at the wonderful
architecture and exquisite workmanship. Look at
these graceful arches, and examine that sort of lace–work
in the ceilings and walls.”

While they were thus occupied, the ship’s company
came into the court, and the principal called them
together to hear Professor Mapps on the history of
the Alhambra.

 “In 1238 Ibnu–I–Ahamar founded the kingdom of Granada, and he built the
 Alhambra for his palace and fortress. In Arabic it was _Kasr–Alhamra_,
 or Red Castle; and from this comes the present name. The Vermilion
 Tower was a part of the original fortress. Under this monarch, whose
 title was Mohammed I., Granada became very prosperous and powerful.
 When the Christians captured Valencia, the Moors fled to Granada, and
 fifty thousand were added to the population of the kingdom; and it
 is estimated that a million more came when Seville and Cordova were
 conquered by the Castilians. The work of this king was continued by his
 successors; and the Alhambra was finished in 1333 by Yosuf I. He built
 the Gate of Judgment, Justice, or Law, as it is variously called, and
 the principal parts of the palace around you. The city was in its glory
 then, and is said to have had half a million inhabitants. But family
 quarrels came into the house of the monarch, here in the Alhambra; and
 this was the beginning of the decline of the Moorish power.

 “Abul–Hassan had two wives. One of them was Ayesha; and the other was
 a very beautiful Christian lady called Zoraya, or the Morning Star.
 Ayesha was exceedingly jealous of the other; and fearing that the son of
 the Morning Star, instead of her own, might succeed to the crown, she
 organized a powerful faction. On Zoraya’s side were the Beni–Serraj,
 whom the Spaniards called the Abencerrages. They were the descendants
 of a vizier of the King of Cordova,—Abou–Serraj. Abou–Abdallah was the
 eldest son of Ayesha; and in 1482 he dethroned his father. The name
 of this prince became Boabdil with the Spaniards; and so he is called
 in Mr. Irving’s works. As soon as he came into power, his mother, and
 the Zegris who had assisted her, persuaded him to retaliate upon the
 Abencerrages for the support they had given to Zoraya. Under a deceitful
 plea, he gathered them together in this palace, where the Zegris were
 waiting for them. One by one they were called into one of these courts,
 and treacherously murdered. Thus was Granada deprived of its bravest
 defenders; and the Moors were filled with indignation and contempt for
 their king. While they were quarrelling among themselves, Ferdinand and
 Isabella advanced upon Granada. They had captured all the towns and
 strong fortresses; and there was nothing more to stay their progress.
 For nine months the sovereigns besieged the city before it fell. It was
 a sad day for the Moors when the victors marched into the town. There
 is a great deal of poetry and romance connected with this palace and
 the Moslems who were driven out of it. You should read Mr. Lockhart’s
 translation of the poems on these subjects, and the works of Prescott
 and Irving.”

When the professor had completed his account, the
doctor’s party passed in to the right, entering one of
the apartments which surround the court on three of its
sides.

“That’s as mean a lot of lions as I ever saw,” said
Murray, who had lingered at the fountain which gives
its name to the court.

“The sculpture of the lions is certainly very poor;
but we can’t have every thing,” replied the doctor.
“This is the Hall of the Abencerrages; and it gets its
name from the story Mr. Mapps has just told you.
Some say these nobles were slain in this room; and
others, that they were beheaded near the fountain in
the court, where the guides point out a dark spot as the
stain of blood. You must closely examine the work in
this little room if you wish to appreciate it.”

They returned to the Court of the Lions, and, crossing
it, entered the Hall of the Two Sisters. The students
expected to hear some romance told of these
two ladies; but they proved to be two vast slabs in
the floor. This room and that of the Abencerrages
were probably the sleeping apartments of the monarch’s
family; and several small chambers, used for baths and
other purposes, are connected with them. On each
side of them are raised platforms for the couches. At
the farther end of the court is the council–hall of justice.
It is long and narrow, seventy–five by sixteen feet; and
is very elaborately ornamented.

At the northern end of the Court of Myrtles, is the
Hall of Ambassadors, which occupies the ground floor
of the Tower of Comares. It is the largest apartment
of the palace, seventy–five by thirty–seven feet. This
was the throne–room, or hall of audience, of the monarchs.
The doctor again insisted that his pupils should
scrutinize the work; and he called their attention to the
horseshoe arches and various other forms and shapes,
to the curious niches and alcoves, to the delicate coloring
in the ceilings and on the walls, and to the interlacing
designs, in the portions of the palace they visited.

They had now seen the principal apartments on the
ground floor; and they ascended to the towers, the open
galleries of which are a peculiarity in the construction
of the edifice. They were shown the rooms occupied
by Washington Irving when he “succeeded to Boabdil,”
and became an inhabitant of the Alhambra; but the
Alhambra is a thing to be seen, and not described.
They visited the Royal Chapel, the fortress, and for
two days they were busy as bees, though one day was
enough to satisfy most of the students.

On the third day of their sojourn at the Alhambra,
the doctor’s party visited the Generalife. The name
means “The Garden of the Architect,” who was probably
an employee of the king; but the palace was purchased
and used as a pleasure–house by one of the
kings. The sword of Boabdil is shown here. The
gardens, which are about all the visitor sees, are more
quaint than beautiful. The walks are hedged in with
box, and the cypress–trees are trimmed in square
blocks, as in the gardens of Versailles. Passing
through these, the visitor ascends a tower on a hill,
which commands a magnificent view of Granada and
the surrounding country.

The abundance of water in and around the Alhambra
attracts the attention of the tourist. The walks
have a stream trickling down the hill on each side. It
comes from the snow–crowned Sierra Nevadas; and, the
warmer the weather, the faster do the ice and snow
melt, and the greater is the flow of the water. In the
Alhambra and in the Generalife these streams of water
are to be met at almost every point.

One day was given to the city of Granada, though
the visitor cares but little for any thing but the Alhambra.
Without mentioning what may be seen in the
cathedral in detail, there is one sight there which is
almost worth the pilgrimage to the city; and that is the
tomb of Ferdinand and Isabella. Dr. Winstock ordered
a carriage for the purpose of taking his charge
to the church.

When the team appeared at the door of the hotel,
the students were very much amused at its singular
character; for it was a very handsome carriage, but it
was drawn by mules. The harness was quite elaborate
and elegant; yet to be drawn by these miserable mules
seemed to some of the party to be almost a disgrace.
But the doctor said that they had been highly honored,
since they had been supplied with what was doubtless
the finest turnout to be had. These mules were very
large and handsome for their kind, and cost more
money than the finest horses. After this explanation,
they were satisfied to ride behind a pair of mules.

There are plenty of pictures and sculptures in the
cathedral; but the party hastened to the royal chapel
built by order of the sovereigns, which became their
burial–place. The mausoleum is magnificent beyond
description. It consists of two alabaster sepulchres in
the centre of the chapel, on one of which are the forms
of Ferdinand and Isabella, and on the other those of
Crazy Jane and Philip, the parents of Charles V. But
the lion of the place, to the students, was the vault
below the chapel, to which they were conducted, down
a narrow staircase of stone, by the attendant. On a
low dais in the middle of the tomb were two very ordinary
coffins, not differing from those in use in New
England, except that they were strapped with iron
bands.

“This one, marked ‘F,’ contains the remains of Ferdinand,”
said the doctor, in a low tone. “The other
has an ‘I’ upon it, and holds all that time has left of
the mortal part of Isabella, whose patronage enabled
Columbus to discover the New World.”

“Is it possible that the remains of Ferdinand and
Isabella are in those coffins?” exclaimed Sheridan.

“There is not a doubt of the fact. Eight years ago
the late queen of Spain visited Granada, and caused
mass to be said for the souls of these sovereigns at the
same altar used by them at the taking of the city.
Some of the guides will tell you that these coffins
were opened at this time, and the remains of the king
and queen were found to be in an excellent state of
preservation. I don’t know whether the statement is
true or not.”

“Here are two other coffins just like them,” said
Murray, as he turned to a sort of shelf that extended
across the sides of the vault.

“They contain the remains of Crazy Jane and Philip
her husband, both of whose effigies are introduced in
the sculpture on the monuments in the chapel above,”
replied the doctor. “The coffin of Philip is the very
one that she carried about everywhere she went, and
so often embraced in the transports of her grief. She
is at rest now.”

Deeply impressed by what they had seen in the
vault, which made the distant past more real to the
young men, they returned to the chapel above. In
the sacristy they saw the sword of Ferdinand, a very
plain weapon, and his sceptre; but more interesting
were the crown of silver gilt worn by Isabella, her
prayer–book, and the chasuble, or priest’s vestment,
embroidered by her.

The party next visited the Carthusian Monastery,
just out of the city, which contains some exquisite
marble–work and curious old frescos. On their return
to the Alhambra, they gave some attention to the gypsies,
who are a prominent feature of Granada, where
they are colonized in greater numbers than at any other
place in Spain, though they also abound in the vicinity
of Seville. They live by themselves, on the side of
a hill, outside of the city. The tourists crossed the
Darro, which flows at the foot of the hill on which the
Alhambra and Generalife stand. They found the gypsies
lolling about in the sun, hardly disturbed by the
advent of the visitors. They seem to lead a vagabond
life at home as well as abroad. They were of an olive
complexion, very dirty, and very indolent. Some of the
young girls were pretty, but most of the women were
as disagreeable as possible. The men work at various
trades; but the reputation of all of them for honesty
is bad. They do not live in houses, but in caverns in
the rocks of which the hill is composed. They are not
natural caverns, but are excavated for dwellings.

The doctor led the party into one of them. It was
lighted only by the door; but there was a hole in the
top for the escape of the smoke. There was a bed in
a corner, under which reposed three pigs, while a lot
of hens were picking up crumbs thrown to them by
a couple of half–naked children. It was the proper
habitation of the pigs, rather than the human beings.
The onslaughts of the beggars were so savage that the
visitors were compelled to beat a hasty retreat. The
women teased the surgeon to enter their grottos in
order to get the fee.

In the evening some British officers from “Gib,” as
they always call the great fortress, had a gypsy dance
at the _Siete Suelos_. The doctor and his pupils were
invited to attend. There were two men dressed in full
Spanish costume, and three girls, also in costume, one
of whom was quite pretty. One of the men was the
captain of the gypsies, and played the guitar with marvellous
skill, an exhibition of which he gave the party.
There was nothing graceful about the dancing: it was
simply peculiar, with a curious jerking of the hips. At
times the dancers indulged in a wild song. When the
show was finished, the gypsy girls made an energetic
demonstration on the audience for money, and must
have collected a considerable sum from the officers, for
they used all the arts of the coquette.

Just at dark a small funeral procession passed the
hotel. It was preceded by half a dozen men bearing
great candles lighted. The coffin was borne on the
shoulders of four more, and was highly ornamented.
The funeral party were singing or chanting, but so
irreverently that the whole affair seemed more like a
frolic than a funeral.

“That is a gay–looking coffin,” said Murray to
Mariano Ramos, the best guide and courier in Spain,
who had been in the employ of the principal since the
squadron arrived at Malaga.

“That is all for show,” laughed Mariano. “The
men will bring it back with them.”

“Don’t they bury the dead man in it?”

“No: that would make it too expensive for poor
folks. They tumble the dead into a rough box, or
bury him without any thing.”

The next morning the excursionists started for Cordova,
and arrived late at night, going by the same route
they had taken to Granada as far as Bobadilla.



CHAPTER XXIV.

AN ADVENTURE ON THE ROAD.


In twelve hours after she started, the American
Prince was in the harbor of Cadiz. Bark Lingall
was on board; and Jacob Lobo, who spoke five languages,
had been engaged at the Hotel de la Alameda
as his companion. Mr. Pelham sent them ashore as
soon as the anchor went over the bow.

“Do you expect to find the Count de Escarabajosa
in Cadiz?” asked the interpreter, as they landed.

“Of course not: I told you he would not be here,”
replied Bark. “I may find out where he went to from
here, and I may not. I left him at the Hotel de Cadiz;
and we will go there first.”

“I can tell you where he went without asking a
question,” added Lobo, to whom Bark had told the
whole story of Raymond.

“I can guess at it, as you do; but I want information
if I can obtain it,” replied Bark.

“You would certainly have been caught if you hadn’t
thrown the detective off the track by going over to
Oran.”

“We went to Oran for that purpose.”

“The count has got out of Spanish territory, and he
will keep out of it for the present. Our next move will
be to go to Gibraltar. He is safe there.”

“I think we shall find him there.”

The landlord of the hotel recognized Bark, who had
been a guest in his house for several weeks. Raymond
had not told him where he was going when he left. He
had gone from the hotel on foot, carrying his bag in his
hand.

“Where do you think he went?” asked Bark.

“My opinion at the time was that he went to Gibraltar;
for a steamer sailed for Algeciras that day, and
there was none for any other port,” replied the landlord.

“But he might have left by the train,” suggested
Bark.

“He went away in the middle of the day, and the
steamer left at noon.”

“He did not leave by train,” added the guide.

“I don’t think he did,” said Bark. “Now, when
does the next steamer leave for Gibraltar?”

“You will find the bills of the steamers hanging in
the hall,” replied the landlord.

One of these indicated that a Spanish steamer
would sail at noon the next day.

“Perhaps she will, and perhaps she will not,” said
Lobo.

“But she is advertised to leave to–morrow,” added
Bark.

“Very likely before night you may find another bill,
postponing the departure till the next day: they do
such things here.”

“What shall we do?”

“Wait till a steamer sails,” replied Lobo, shrugging
his shoulders.

“Is there any other way to get there?” asked Bark,
troubled by the uncertainty.

“Some other steamer may come along: we will go
to the office of the French line, and inquire when one
is expected,” replied Jacob.

They ascertained that the French steamer did not
touch at Gibraltar; and there was no other way than
to depend upon the Spanish line. As Jacob Lobo had
feared, the sailing of the boat advertised was put off
till the next day.

“You can go by land, if you are not afraid of the
brigands,” said the interpreter.

“Brigands?”

“Within a year a party of English people were
robbed by brigands, on the way from Malaga to
Ronda; but that is the only instance I ever heard of.
The country between here and Malaga used to be
filled with smugglers; and there are some of that trade
now. When their business was dull, they used to take
to the road at times.”

“How long would it take to go by the road?” asked
Bark, who was very enthusiastic in the discharge of
his duty, and unwilling to lose a single day.

“That depends upon how fast you ride,” laughed
Lobo. “It is about sixty miles, and you might make
it in a day, if you were a good horseman.”

“But I am not: I was never on a horse above three
times in my life.”

“Then you should take two days for the journey.”

“If we should start to–morrow morning, we should
not get there as soon as the steamer that leaves the
following day.”

“That steamer may not go for three or four days yet:
it will depend upon whether she gets a cargo, or not.”

Bark was vexed and perplexed, and did not know
what to do. He went down to the quay where they
had landed, and found the boats from the ship, bringing
off the Josephines and the Tritonias. He applied
to Mr. Pelham for advice; and, after consulting Mr.
Fluxion, it was decided that he should wait for a
steamer, if he had to wait a week; for there was no
such desperate hurry that he need to risk an encounter
with brigands in order to save a day or two. So the
services of Bark and Jacob Lobo were economized as
guides, for both of them knew the city. Two days
later the Spanish steamer actually sailed; and in seven
hours Bark and his courier were in Algeciras, whence
they crossed the bay in a boat to Gibraltar.

We left Raymond in Gibraltar, watching the newspapers
for tidings of the American Prince; and he had
learned of her arrival at Cadiz, where she had been
for three days when Bark arrived at the Rock. He had
heard nothing of the death of his uncle in Barcelona,
and had no suspicion of the change of the circumstances
we have described. He was not willing to risk
himself in Cadiz while the Prince was there. As her
consorts had not gone to Cadiz with her, he was satisfied
that the steamer was to return to Malaga.

After he obtained the news, and had satisfied himself
that the Princes were going overland to Cadiz,
he went to his chamber at the King’s Arms, where he
attempted to reason out the future movements of the
squadron. He had concluded, weeks before, that the
fleet would not go to Lisbon, since all hands had visited
that city; and now it appeared that Cadiz would be
avoided for a second time, for the same reason. The
Prince would wait there till her own ship’s company
arrived, and then go back to Malaga. The Josephines
and Tritonias would do the place, and then return to
Malaga overland. It looked to Raymond like a very
plain case; and he was confident that the fleet would
come to Gibraltar next.

He was entirely satisfied that his conclusion was a
correct one. The squadron would certainly visit the
Rock, for the principal could not think of such a thing
as passing by a fortress so wonderful. Raymond was
out of the way of arrest, if the detective should trace
him to this place; and he could join his ship when she
came. If the principal still wanted to send him to
Barcelona, he would tell his whole story; and, if this
did not save him, he would trust to his chances to
escape. He sat at the window, thinking about the
matter. It was just before sunset, and the air was
delicious. He could look into the square in front of the
hotel, and he was not a little startled to see the uniform
of the squadron on a person approaching the
hotel. He looked till he recognized Bark as the one
who wore it.

But who was the man with him? This question
troubled him. The man was a stranger to him; for the
fugitives had not employed a guide in Malaga, and
therefore Jacob Lobo was all unknown to him. Neither
the Prince nor her consorts were in Gibraltar; and
it was plain enough to the Spaniard that Bark and his
companion had come in the steamer he had seen going
into Algeciras two hours before. They had come from
Cadiz, and they could have no other errand in Gibraltar
than to find him. Had Bark become a traitor? or,
what was more likely, had he been required by the
principal to conduct this man in search of him? Had
Mr. Lowington ascertained that he was at the Rock?
It was almost impossible, for he had met no one who
knew him.

He saw Bark and his doubtful companion enter the
Club–House Hotel, and he understood their business
there. He had not seen the _alguacil_, or detective, who
had come on board of the Tritonia for him; but he
jumped at the conclusion that this was the man. The
principal had afforded him every facility for finding the
object of his search; and now it appeared that he had
sent Bark with him, to identify his expected prisoner.
Raymond decided on the moment not to wait for the
detective to see him. He rang the bell, and sent for
his bill: he paid it, and departed before Bark could
reach the hotel. He scorned to ask the landlord or
waiters to tell any lies on his account. He hastened
down to the bay; and at the landing he found the very
boat that had brought Bark and his companion over
from Algeciras, just hoisting her sails to return. The
boatman was glad enough to get a passenger back, and
thus double the earnings of the trip. It is about five
miles across the bay; and, with a fresh breeze from
the south–east, the distance was made in an hour.

On the way, Raymond learned that the boat had
brought over two passengers; and, from the boatman’s
description of them, he was convinced that they were
Bark and his companion. He questioned the skipper
in regard to them; but the man had no idea who or
what they were. The passengers talked in English all
the way over, and he could not understand a word they
said. It was not prudent for the fugitive to stay over
night in Algeciras; and, procuring a couple of mules
and a guide, he went to San Roque, where he passed
the night. He found a fair hotel at this place; and he
decided to remain there till the next day.

He had time to think now; and he concluded that
Bark and his suspicious companion would depart from
the Rock when they found he was not there. But he
did not lose sight of the fact that he was in Spain
again. What would his pursuers do when they found
that he had left the hotel? They would see his name
on the books, and the landlord would tell them he had
just left. There were plenty of boatmen at the landing,
who had seen him embark in the boat for Algeciras.
Raymond did not like these suggestions as they came
up in his mind. They would cross the bay, and find
the boatman, who would be able to describe him, as he
had them. Then, when they had failed to find him at
the _fondas_, they would visit the stables. It was easy
enough to trace him.

At first he thought of journeying on horseback to
Xeres, and there taking the train to the north, and
into Portugal; but he abandoned the thought when he
considered that he was liable to meet the students at
any point on the railroad. Finally he decided to start
for Ronda, an interior city, forty miles from the Rock.
At eight o’clock in the morning, he was in the saddle.
He had retained the mules that brought him from
Algeciras. José, his guide, was one of the retired
brigands, of whom there are so many in this region.
As it was too soon for him to be pursued, he did not
hurry, and stopped at Barca de Cuenca to dine.

After dinner he resumed his journey. José was a
surly, ugly fellow, and Raymond was not disposed to
converse with him. This silence made the miles very
long; but the scenery was wild and grand, and the
traveller enjoyed it. After he had ridden about five
miles he came to a country which was all hills and
rocks. The path was very crooked; and it required
many angles to overcome steeps, and avoid chasms.
Suddenly, as he passed a rock which formed a corner
in the path, he was confronted by three men, all armed
to the teeth, with muskets, pistols, and knives. José
was provided with the same arsenal of weapons; but
he did not offer to use any of them.

The leading brigand was a good–natured ruffian, and
he smiled as pleasantly as though his calling was perfectly
legitimate. He simply held out his hand, and
said, “_Por Dios_,” which is the way that beggars generally
do their business.

“_Perdon usted por Dios hermano_,” replied Raymond,
shaking his head.

This is the usual way to refuse a beggar: “Excuse
us for God’s sake, brother.” Raymond did not yet
understand whether the three men intended to beg or
rob; but he soon ascertained that the leader had only
adopted this facetious way of doing what is commonly
done with the challenge, “Your money or your life!”
It was of no avail to resist, even if he had been armed.
Most of his gold was concealed in a money–belt worn
next to his skin, while he carried half a dozen Isabelinos
in his purse, which he handed to the gentlemanly
brigand.

“_Gracias, señorito!_” replied the leader. “Your
watch, if you please.”

Raymond gave it up, and hoped they would be satisfied.
Instead of this, they made him a prisoner,
leading his mule to a cave in the hills, where they
bound him hand and foot. José waited for his mule,
and then, with great resignation, began his return
journey.



CHAPTER XXV.

CORDOVA, SEVILLE, AND CADIZ.


Cordova is a gloomy and desolate city with
about forty thousand inhabitants. It was once
the capital of the kingdom of Cordova, and had two
hundred thousand people within its walls; and some
say a million, though the former number is doubtless
nearer the truth. The grass grows in its streets now,
and it looks like a deserted city, as it is. There is only
one thing to see in Cordova, and that is the mosque.
As soon as the party had been to breakfast, they
hastened to visit it.

“We will first take a view of the outside,” said the
doctor to his pupils when they had reached the mosque.
“This square in front of it is the Court of Oranges;
you observe a few palms and cypresses, as well as
orange–trees. The fountain in the centre was built by
the Moors nearly a thousand years ago.”

“But I don’t see any thing so very grand about the
mosque, if that great barn–like building is the one,”
said Murray. “It looks more like a barrack than a
mosque. We have been in the mosque business some,
and they can’t palm that thing off upon us as a real
mosque. We have seen the genuine thing in Constantinople.”

“I grant that the outside is not very attractive,”
added the doctor. “But in the days of the Moors,
when the mosque was in its glory, the roof was covered
with domes and cupolas. In spite of what you say,
Murray, this was the finest, as it is one of the largest
mosques in the world. It covers an area of six hundred
and forty–two by four hundred and sixty–two feet. It
was completed in the year 796; and the work was
done in ten years. It was built to outdo all the other
mosques of the world except that at Jerusalem. Now
we will go in.”

The party entered the mosque, and were amazed, as
everybody is who has not been prepared for the sight,
by the wilderness of columns. There are about a
thousand of them; and they formerly numbered twelve
hundred. Each of them is composed of a single stone,
and no two of them seem to be of the same order of
architecture. They come from different parts of the
globe; and therefore the marbles are of various kinds
and colors, from pure white to blood red. These
pillars form twenty–nine naves, or avenues, one way,
and nineteen the other. The roof is only forty feet
high, and the columns are only a fraction of this height.
They have no pedestal, and support a sort of double
arch, the upper one plain, and the lower a horseshoe;
indeed, this last looks like a huge horseshoe stretching
across below the loftier arch.

For an hour the party wandered about in the forest
of pillars, pausing at the _Mih–ràb_, or sanctuary of the
mosque, where was kept the copy of the Koran made by
Othman, the founder of the dynasty of that name. It
is still beautiful, but little of its former magnificence
remains; for the pulpit it contained is said to have
cost the equivalent of five millions of dollars.

“St. Ferdinand conquered Cordova in 1236; and
then the mosque was turned into a Christian church
without any great change,” said Dr. Winstock, as they
approached the choir in the centre of the mosque.
“The victors had the good sense and the good taste to
leave the building pretty much as they found it. But
three hundred years later the chapter of the church
built this choir, which almost ruins the interior effect
as we gaze upon it. The fine perspective is lost.
Sixty columns were removed to make room for the
choir. When Charles V. visited Cordova, and saw the
mischief the chapter had wrought, he was very angry,
and severely reproached the authors of it.”

The tourists looked into the high chapel, and glanced
at the forty–four others which surround the mosque.
Then they walked to the bridge over the Guadalquiver.
Arabian writers say it was built by Octavius Cæsar,
but it was entirely reconstructed by the Moors. An
old Moorish mill was pointed out; and the party
returned to the mosque to spend the rest of their time
in studying its marvellous workmanship. Early in the
afternoon the excursionists left for Seville, and arrived
in three hours. The journey was through a pleasant
country, affording them an occasional view of the
Guadalquiver.

[Illustration: “HE SIMPLY HELD OUT HIS HAND.” Page 356.]

“To my mind,” said Dr. Winstock, as the party
passed out of the _Hotel de Londres_ to the _Plaza Nueva_,
which is a small park in front of the City Hall,—“to
my mind Seville is the pleasantest city in Spain, I
have always been in love with it since I came here the
first time; and I have spent four months here altogether.
The air is perfectly delicious; and, though it
often rains, I do not remember a single rainy day.
The streets are clean, the houses are neat and pretty,
the people are polite, the ladies are beautiful,—which
is a consideration to a bachelor like myself,—and, if I
had to spend a year in any city of Europe, Seville
would be the place.”

“What is there to see here?” asked Murray. “I
should like a list of the sights to put in a letter I shall
write to–day.”

“The principal thing is the cathedral; then the
_Giralda_, the _Alcazar_, the tobacco–factory, the Palace of
San Telmo, the _Casa de Pilatos_.”

“That will do, doctor. I can’t put those things in
my letter,” interposed Murray.

“You may say ‘Pilate’s house’ for the last; and add
the _Calle de las Sierpes_, which is the most frequented
street of the city.”

“But I can’t spell the words.”

“It is not in good taste to translate the name of a
street; but it means ‘the street of the serpents.’ But I
think you had better wait till you have seen the sights,
before you attempt to describe them in your letter.”

“I will look them up in the guide–book, when I
write.”

“This is the _Calle de las Sierpes_,” continued the
doctor, as they entered a narrow street leading from
the _Plaza de la Constitucion_—nearly every Spanish city
has one with this name—in the rear of the City Hall.
“This is the business street of the town, and it is
generally crowded with people. Here are the retail
stores, the cafés, the post–office, and the principal
theatre.”

The students were interested in this street, it was so
full of life. The ends of it were barred so that no carriages
could enter it; and the whole pavement was a
sidewalk, as O’Hara would have expressed it. Passing
the theatre, they followed a continuation of the same
street.

“Do you notice the name of this street?” said the
doctor, as he pointed to the sign on a corner. “It is
the _Calle del Amor de Dios_. It is so near like the Latin
that you can tell what it means.”

“But it seems hardly possible that a street should
have such a name,—the ‘Street of the Love of God,’”
added Sheridan.

“That is just what it is; and it was given by reverent
men. There is also in this city the _Calle de Gesu_, or
Jesus Street; and the names of the Virgin and the
saints are applied in the same way.”

Passing through this street, the party came to the
_Alameda de Hercules_.

“The city has about the same history as most others
in the South of Spain,—Romans, Goths, Vandals,
Moors, Christians,” said the doctor. “But some of
the romancists ascribe its origin to Hercules; and this
_alameda_ is named after him. Now we will take a
closer view of one of the houses. You observe that
they differ from those of our cities. They are built on
the Moorish plan. What we call the front door is left
open all day. It leads into a vestibule; and on the
right and left are the entrances to the apartments.
Let us go in.”

“Is this a private house?” asked Sheridan, who
seemed to have some doubts about proceeding any
farther; but then the doctor astonished him by ringing
the bell, which was promptly answered by a voice inquiring
who was there.

“_Gentes de paz_” (peaceful people), replied the surgeon;
and this is the usual way to answer the question
in Spain.

It presently appeared that Dr. Winstock was acquainted
with the gentleman who lived in the house;
and he received a cordial welcome from him. The
young gentlemen were introduced to him, though he
did not speak English; and they were shown the house.

In the vestibule, directly opposite the front door, was
a pair of iron gates of open ornamental work, set in an
archway. A person standing in the street can look
through this gateway into the _patio_, or court of the
mansion. It was paved with marble, with a fountain in
the middle. It was surrounded with plants and flowers;
and here the family sit with their guests in summer, to
enjoy the coolness of the place. Thanking the host,
and promising to call in the evening, the surgeon left
with his pupils,—his “_pupilos_,” as he described them
to the gentleman.

After lunch the sight–seers went to the _Giralda_,
which is now the campanile or bell–tower of the cathedral.
It was built by the Moors in 1296 as a muezzin
tower, or place where the priest calls the faithful to
prayers, and was part of the mosque that stood on this
spot. It is square, and built of red brick, and is
crowned with a lofty spire. The whole height is three
hundred and fifty feet. To the top of this tower the
party ascended, and obtained a fine view of the city
and its surroundings,—so fine that they remained on
their lofty perch for three hours. They could look
down into the bull–ring, and trace the Guadalquiver for
many miles through the flat country. The doctor
pointed out all the prominent objects of interest; and
when they came down they had a very good idea of
Seville and its vicinity.

The next day, as Murray expressed it, they “commenced
work on the cathedral.” It is the handsomest
church in Spain, and some say in the world. It is the
enlargement of an old church made in the fifteenth
century. On the outside it looks like a miscellaneous
pile of buildings, with here and there a semicircular
chapel projecting into the area, and richly ornamented
with various devices. It is in the oblong form, three
hundred and seventy by two hundred and seventy feet,
not including the projecting chapels.

“Now we will enter by the west side,” said the
doctor, when they had surveyed the exterior of the vast
pile. “The _Giralda_ is on the other side. By the way,
did I tell you what this word meant?”

“You did not; but I supposed it was some saint,”
replied Sheridan.

“Not at all. It comes from the Spanish verb _girar_,
which means to turn or whirl; and from this comes
_Giralda_, a weathercock. The name is accidental, coming
probably from the vane on the top of it at some former
period,” continued the doctor as they entered the
cathedral. “The central nave is about one hundred
and twenty–five feet high; and here you get an idea of
the grandeur of the edifice. Here is the burial–place
of the son of Columbus. This slab in the pavement
contains his epitaph:—

FERNANDO COLON.

_Á Castilla, y á Leon
Nuevo mundo dío Colon._”

“_Hablo Español!_” exclaimed Murray. “And I
know what that means,—‘To Castile and Leon Columbus
gave a new world.’”

“It is in all the school–books, and you ought to know
it,” added Sheridan. “Colon means Columbus; but
what was his full name in Spanish?”

“Cristobal Colon. This son was quite an eminent
man, and gave his library to the chapter of this church.
Seville was the birthplace and the residence of Murillo;
and you will find many of his pictures in the
churches and other buildings.”

The party went into the royal chapel. The under
part of the altar is formed by the silver and glass
casket which contains the remains of St. Ferdinand,
nearly perfect. It is exhibited three days in the year;
and then the body lies dressed in royal robes, with the
crown on the head. The doctor pointed out the windows
of stained glass, of which there are ninety–three.
Nearly the whole day was spent in the church by those
of the students who had the taste to appreciate its
beautiful works of art. The next morning was devoted
to the _Alcazar_. It was the palace of the Moorish sovereigns
when Seville became the capital of an independent
kingdom. After the city was captured, St. Ferdinand
took up his quarters within it. Don Pedro the
Cruel repaired and rebuilt portions of it, and made it
his residence; and it was occupied by the subsequent
sovereigns as long as Seville was the capital of Spain.
Though the structure as it now stands was mainly
erected by Christian kings, its Arabian style is explained
by the fact that Moorish architects were employed in
the various additions and repairs.

It is very like the Alhambra, but inferior to it as a
whole. It contains apartments similar to those the
students had seen at Granada, and therefore was not
as interesting as it would otherwise have been. The
gardens of the palace were more to their taste. They
are filled with orange–trees and a variety of tropical
plants. The avenues are lined with box, and the
garden contains several small ponds. The walks near
the palace are underlaid with pipes perforated with
little holes, so that, when the water is let on, a continuous
line of fountains cools the air; and it is customary
to duck the visitors mildly as a sort of surprise.

The tobacco–factory is the next sight, and is located
opposite the gardens of the _Alcazar_. It is an immense
building used for the manufacture of cigars, cigarillos,
and smoking–tobacco. The article is a monopoly in
the hands of the Government; and many of the larger
cities have similar establishments, but none so large as
the one at Seville. At the time of which we write, six
thousand women were employed in making cigars, and
putting up papers of tobacco. Visitors go through the
works more to observe the operatives than to see the
process of making cigars; and the students were no
exception to the rule. Most of the females were old
and ugly, though many were young. Among them
were not a few gypsies, who could be distinguished by
their olive complexion.

These women all have to be searched before they
leave the building, to prevent them from stealing the
tobacco. Women are employed for this duty, who
become so expert in doing it that the operation is
performed in a very short time.

On the river, near the factory, is the palace of San
Telmo, the residence of the Duke de Montpensier, son
of Louis Philippe, who married the sister of the late
queen of Spain. It is a very unique structure, with an
elaborate portico in the centre of the front, rising one
story above the top of the palace, and surmounted
with a clock. It has a score of carved columns, and
as many statues. The rest of the building is quite
plain, which greatly increases the effect of the complicated
portico. The picture–gallery and the museums
of art in the palace are opened to the tourist, and they
richly repay the visit. Among the curiosities is the
guitar used by Isabella I., the sword of Pedro the
Cruel, and that of Fernando Gonzales. The building
was erected for a naval school, and was used as such for
a hundred and fifty years. It was presented by the
queen to her sister in 1849.

Leaving the palace, the party walked along the
quays by the river, till they came to the _Toro del Oro_,
or tower of gold. It was originally part of a Moorish
fortress; but now stands alone on the quay, and is
occupied as a steamboat–office. The Moors used it as
a treasure–house, and so did Pedro the Cruel. In the
time of Columbus it was a place of deposit for the
gold brought over by the fleets from the New World,
and landed here. It is said that more than eight million
ducats were often stored here.

Near this tower, is the hospital of _La Caridad_, or
charity. It was founded by a young nobleman who
had reformed his dissipated life, and passed the remainder
of it in deeds of piety in this institution. It
is a house of refuge for the poor and the aged. It
contains two beautiful _patios_, with the usual plants,
flowers, and fountains. The institution is something
on the plan of the Brotherhood of Pity in Florence;
and the young gentlemen of the city render service in
it in turn. The founder was an intimate friend of
Murillo, which accounts for the number of the great
artist’s pictures to be found in the establishment. Its
little church contains several of them. A singular
painting by another artist attracted the attention of
some of the students as a sensation in art. It represents
a dead prelate in full robes, lying in the tomb.
The body has begun to decay; and the worms are
feasting upon it, crawling in and out at the eyes, nose,
and mouth. It is a most disgusting picture, though
it may have its moral.

A day was given to the museum which contains
many of Murillo’s pictures, and next to that at Madrid
is the finest in Spain. The _Casa de Pilatos_ was visited
on the last day the excursionists were in Seville at this
time, though it happened that they came to the city a
second time. It belongs to the Duke of Medina Celi,
though he seldom occupies it. It is not the house of
Pilate, but only an imitation of it. It was built in the
sixteenth century, by the ancestors of the duke, some
of whom had visited the Holy Land. The _Patio_ is
large and is paved with white marble, with a checkered
border and other ornaments. In the centre is a
fountain, and in each corner is a colossal statue of a
goddess. Around it are two stories of galleries, with
fine arches and columns. The palace contains a beautiful
chapel, in which is a pillar made in imitation of
that to which Christ was bound when he was scourged.
On the marble staircase the guides point out a cock,
which is said to be in the place of the one that crowed
when Peter denied his Master; but of course this is
sheer tomfoolery, and it was lawful game for Murray,
who was the joker of the officers’ party.

On another day the doctor and his pupils walked
over the bridge to the suburb of Triana, where the
gypsies lived. They were hardly more civilized than
those seen at Granada. Then, as the order was not
given for the departure, they began to see some of the
sights a second time; and many of them will bear
repeated visits. During a second examination of the
_Alcazar_, Dr. Winstock told them many stories of Pedro
the Cruel, of Don Fadrique, of Blanche of Bourbon,
and of Maria de Padilla, which we have not the space
to repeat, but which are more interesting than most of
the novels of the day. After the ship’s company had
been in Seville five days, the order was given to leave
at quarter before six; and the party arrived at Cadiz
at ten.

This city is located nearly on the point of a tongue
of land which encloses a considerable bay; and, when
the train had twenty miles farther to go, the students
could see the multitude of lights that glittered like
stars along the line of the town. Cadiz is a commercial
place, was colonized by the Phœnicians, and they
supposed it to be about at the end of the earth. They
believed that the high bluff at Gibraltar, which was
called Calpe, and Abyla at Ceuta in Africa, were part
of the same hill, rent asunder by Hercules; and they
erected a column on each height, which are known
as the Pillars of Hercules. Cadiz was held by the
Romans and the Moors in turn, and captured by the
Spaniards in 1262. After the discovery of America, it
shared with Seville the prosperity which followed that
event; and the gold and merchandise were brought to
these ports. Its vast wealth caused it to be often
attacked by the pirates of Algiers and Morocco; the
English have twice captured it, and twice failed to do
so; and it was the civil and military headquarters of
the Spaniards during the peninsular war. When the
American colonies of Spain became independent, it
lost much of its valuable commerce, and has not
been what it was in the last century since the French
Revolution.

The boats of the American Prince, in charge of the
forward officers and a squad of firemen and stewards,
were on the beach near the railroad station; and the
ship’s company slept on board that night. The next
day was devoted to Cadiz. The cathedral is a modern
edifice and a beautiful church, though the tourist who
had been to Toledo and Seville does not care to give
much of his time to it. In the Capuchin Monastery,
to which the doctor took his pupils, is the last picture
painted by Murillo. It is the Marriage of St. Catharine,
and is painted on the wall over the high altar of
the chapel. Before it was quite finished, Murillo fell
from the scaffold, was fatally injured, and died soon
after. The picture was finished by one of his pupils,
at his request.

There are no other sights to be seen in Cadiz;
but the students were very much pleased with the place.
Its public buildings are large and massive; its white
dwellings are pretty; and its squares and walks on the
seashore are very pleasant. By the kindness of the
banker, the club–house was opened to the party.

“I am rather sorry we do not go to Xeres,” said the
doctor, when they were seated in the reading–room.
“I supposed we should stop there on our way from
Seville. I wished to take you into the great wine–vaults.
I think you know what the place is noted for.”

“_Vino del Xeres_,” replied Murray,—“Sherry wine.”

“It is made exclusively in this place; and its peculiarity
comes from the kind of grapes and method
of manufacture. The business here is in the hands
of English, French, and German people, who far
surpass the Spaniards in the making of wine. The
immense cellars and store–houses where the wine is
kept are well worth seeing, though they are not
encouraging to men with temperance principles. The
place has forty thousand inhabitants, and is the _Xeres
de la Frontera_, where Don Roderick was overwhelmed
by the Moors, and the Gothic rule in Spain was
ended.”

“Seville is a larger place than Cadiz, isn’t it?”
asked Sheridan.

“More than twice as large. Seville is the third city
of Spain, having one hundred and fifty–two thousand
inhabitants; while Cadiz is the ninth, with only seventy–two
thousand.”

The party returned to the steamer; and the next
morning she sailed for Malaga, where the Josephines
and Tritonias had arrived before them. The fleet immediately
departed for Gibraltar, and in five hours was
at anchor off the Rock.



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE CAPTURE OF THE BEGGARS.


When Bark Lingall and Jacob Lobo arrived at
Gibraltar, they went to the Club–House Hotel
to inquire for the fugitive. He was not there; but they
spent half an hour questioning the landlord and others
about the hall, in regard to the town and its hotels
and boarding–houses. Then they went to the King’s
Arms; and, in the course of another half–hour, they
learned that Henry Raymond had left this hotel within
an hour. Where had he gone? The landlord could
not tell. No steamer had left that day; he might have
left by crossing the Neutral Ground, or he might have
gone over to Algeciras in a boat.

“I wonder why he cleared out so suddenly,” said
Bark, very much annoyed at the situation.

“I suppose he was frightened at something,” replied
Jacob. “Very likely he saw you when we went into
the Club–House.”

“But he wouldn’t run away from me. He and I are
the best of friends.”

“But circumstances alter cases,” laughed the interpreter.
“He may have supposed you had gone over to
the enemy, and had come here to entrap him in some
way.”

“It may be; but I hardly believe it,” mused Bark.

Jacob Lobo had no suspicion that he had been the
cause of Raymond’s hurried departure; and he did not
suggest the true solution of the problem. But the fugitive
was gone; and all they had to do was to look
him up. They were zealous in the mission with which
they were charged, and lost not a moment in prosecuting
the search. But they had almost gained the battle
in obtaining a clew to the fugitive. Lobo declared that
it would be easy enough to trace him out of the town,
for he must have gone by the Neutral Ground, which is
the strip of land separating the Rock from the mainland,
or crossed to Algeciras in a boat. They were on
their way to the landing–port, when the evening gun
was fired.

“That’s as far as we can go to–night,” said Lobo,
coming to a sudden halt.

“Why? what’s the matter now?” asked Bark.

“That’s the gun, and the gate will be closed in a
few minutes,” replied Lobo. “They wouldn’t open
it to oblige the King of Spain, if he happened along
here about this time.”

It was no use to argue the matter in the face of
fact; and they spent the rest of the day in making
inquiries about the town. They went to the drivers of
cabs, and to those who kept horses and mules to let.
They questioned men and women located near the
gate. No one had seen such a person as was described.
They went to the King’s Arms for the night;
and as soon as the gate was opened in the morning
they hastened to the landing–port to make inquiries
among the boatmen. They found one with whom they
had spoken when they landed the day before. He
wanted a job, as all of them do. He had seen a young
man answering to the description given; and he had
gone over to Algeciras in the very boat that brought
them over. Would they like to go over to Algeciras?
They would, immediately after breakfast; for they had
left their bags, and had not paid their bill at the hotel.

The wind was light, and it took them two hours to
cross the bay. With but little difficulty they found the
stable at which the fugitive had obtained his mules, and
learned that the name of the guide was José Barca.
The keeper of the _fonda_ volunteered the information
that José was a brigand and a rascal; but the stable–keeper,
who had furnished the guide, insisted that the
landlord spoke ill of José because he had not obtained
the job for his own man.

“About all these guides are ex–brigands and smugglers,”
said Lobo.

“But the landlord of the _fonda_ looks like a more
honest man than the stable–keeper,” added Bark. “I
think I should prefer to trust him.”

“I believe you are right, Mr. Lingall; but either of
them would cheat you if he got the chance,” laughed
Lobo; but, being a courier himself, it was for his interest
to cry down the men with whom travellers have to
deal, in order to enhance the value of his own calling.

The landlord would furnish mules and a guide; and
in an hour the animals were ready for a start. It was
not known where Raymond had gone: he had taken
the mules for San Roque, but with the understanding
that he could go as far as he pleased with them. The
name of the landlord’s guide was Julio Piedra. He
was armed to the teeth, as Raymond’s guide had been.
He was a good–natured, talkative fellow; and the fugitive
would certainly have done better, so far as the
agreeableness of his companion was concerned, if he
had patronized the landlord instead of the stable–keeper.

When the party arrived at the hotel in San Roque,
their store of information was increased by the knowledge
that Raymond had started that morning for
Ronda. The pursuit looked very hopeful now, and the
travellers resumed their journey.

“We are not making more than three or four knots
an hour on this tack,” said Bark, when they had ridden
a short distance.

“Three miles an hour is all you can average on
mules through this country,” replied Lobo.

“Can’t we offer the guide a bonus to hurry up?”

“You can’t stand it to ride any faster; and, as it is,
you will be very sore when you get out of bed to–morrow
morning.”

“I can stand any thing in this chase,” added Bark
confidently.

“What good will it do to hurry?” persisted Lobo.
“It is one o’clock now; and Raymond has five hours
the start of us. It will be impossible to overtake him
to–day. The mules can go about so far; and at six
o’clock we shall reach the place where Raymond
stopped to dine. That will be Barca de Cuenca; and
that will be the place for us to stop over night.”

“Over night! I don’t want to stop anywhere till we
come up with Raymond,” replied Bark.

“You won’t say that when you get to Barca,” laughed
Lobo. “You will be tired enough to go to bed without
your supper. Besides, the mules will want rest, if you
do not; for the distance will be twenty miles from Algeciras.
Raymond stopped over night at San Roque.”

“But where shall we catch up with him?”

“Not till we get to Ronda, as things now stand.”

“I don’t like the idea of dragging after him in this
lazy way,” protested Bark.

“What do you wish to do?” demanded Lobo, who
had been over this road twenty times or more, and
knew all about the business.

“I don’t believe in stopping anywhere over night,”
replied Bark with enthusiasm.

“Very well, Mr. Lingall,” added Lobo, laughing.
“If when you get to Barca, and have had your supper,
you wish to go any farther, I will see what can be done.
I can make a trade with Julio to go on with these
mules, or we can hire others.”

“You say that Raymond left at noon the place
where we shall be at supper–time: where will he be at
that time?” asked Bark.

“He will go on to Barca de Cortes, which is twelve
miles farther; unless he takes it into his head, as you
do, that he will travel in the night.”

“I am in favor of going on to that place where he
sleeps.”

“You are in favor of it now; but, take my word for
it, you will not be in favor of it when you get to Barca
de Cuenca,” laughed Lobo.

“It will be only four hours more; and I can stand
that, if I am tired, as I have no doubt I shall be. In
fact, I am tired now, for I am not used to riding on
horseback, or muleback either.”

Before six o’clock they reached Barca de Cuenca;
and Bark was certainly very tired. The motion of the
mule made him uncomfortable, and he had walked a
good part of the distance. But, in spite of his weariness,
he was still in favor of proceeding that night to the
place where it was supposed the fugitive lodged. It
would save going about twenty miles in all; and he
thought he should come out of the journey better in the
end if he were relieved of riding this distance. Julio
was willing to take out his mules again after they had
rested two hours, for a consideration.

While they were making these arrangements in the
court of the _venta_, or inn, a man mounted on one mule,
and leading another, entered the yard. He was dressed
and armed in the same style as Julio. At this moment
the landlord called the party to supper. Bark was
democratic in his ideas; and he insisted that the guide
should take a seat at the table with Lobo and himself.
Julio was a little backward, but he finally took the seat
assigned to him. He said something in Spanish to the
interpreter as soon as he had taken his chair, which
seemed to excite the greatest astonishment on the part
of the latter. Lobo plied him with a running fire of
questions, which Julio answered as fast as they were
put. Bark judged, that, as neither of them touched the
food which was on their plates, the subject of the conversation
must be exceedingly interesting.

“What is it, Lobo?” he asked, when he had listened,
as long as his patience held out, to the exciting talk he
could not understand.

“Did you notice the man that rode into the yard on
a mule, leading another?” said Lobo.

“I did: he was dressed like Julio,” replied Bark.

“That was José Barca, who came from Algeciras as
Raymond’s guide.”

“But what has he done with Raymond?” demanded
Bark, now as much excited as his companions.

“We don’t know. Julio has quarrelled with José,
and refuses to speak to him; and he says José would
not answer him if he did.”

“Do you suppose any thing has gone wrong with
Raymond?” asked Bark anxiously.

“I don’t know; but it looks bad to see this fellow
coming back at this time.”

“Well, can’t you see José, and ask him what has
become of Raymond?”

“Certainly I can; but whether he will tell me is
another thing.”

“Of course he will tell you: why shouldn’t he?”

“Circumstances alter cases. If Raymond has dismissed
him in order to continue his journey in some
other way, José will tell all he knows about it.”

“Do you suppose that is what he has done?”

“I am afraid not,” answered Lobo seriously.

“What has become of him, then?” asked Bark,
almost borne down by anxiety for his friend.

“There is only one other thing that can have happened
to him; and that is, that he has been set upon by
brigands, and made a prisoner for the sake of the
ransom. If this is the case, José will not be so likely
to tell what he knows about the matter.”

“Brigands!” exclaimed Bark, startled at the word.

“A party of English people were captured last year;
but I have not heard of any being on the road this
year,” added Lobo. “But they won’t hurt him if he is
quiet, and don’t attempt to resist.”

After supper Lobo had a talk with José. He did
not know what had become of the young gentleman.
Three beggars had met them on the road, and Raymond
had gone away with them. They wanted to
show him a cave in the mountains, and he accompanied
them. José had waited two hours for him, and then
had gone to look for him, but could not find him.

“Where was this?” demanded Lobo.

“Less than two leagues from here,” replied José.

Lobo translated this story to Bark, and declared
that every word of it was a lie.

“Raymond went from this _venta_ five hours ago;
and it must have taken six or seven hours for all that
José describes to take place,” added Lobo. “But we
must pretend to believe the story, and not say a word.”

Bark could not say a word except to the interpreter,
who had a talk with Julio next; and the guide presently
disappeared. Lobo had formed his plan, and
put it into execution.

“The route by which we have come is not by the
great road from San Roque to Ronda, but a shorter
one by which two leagues are saved,” said Lobo,
explaining his operations to Bark. “All the guides
take this route. About a league across the country, is
a considerable town, which is the headquarters of the
civil guard, sent here last year after the English party
was captured, to guard the roads. This is an extra
force; and I have sent Julio over to bring a squad of
them to this place. José will spend the night here, and
start for home to–morrow morning. I want some of
the civil guard before he goes; and they will be here in
the course of a couple of hours. Julio is glad enough
of a chance to get José into trouble.”

“But do you believe José has done any thing wrong,
even if Raymond has been captured by brigands?”
asked Bark.

“Very likely he is to have a share of the plunder
and the ransom; and I think you will find him ready
to negotiate for the ransom now.”

This proved to be the case; for in the course of an
hour José broached the subject to Lobo. He thought,
if the friends of the young man would pay liberally for
the trouble of looking him up, he might possibly be
found. He did not know what had become of him;
but he would undertake to find him. He was a poor
man, and he could not afford to spend his time in the
search for nothing. Lobo encouraged him to talk as
much as he could, and mentioned several sums of money.
They were too small. The beggars had probably
lured the young man into the mountains; and he did
not believe they would let him go without a reward.
He thought that the beggars would be satisfied with
fifty thousand _reales_.

While they were talking about the price, Julio returned
with an officer and ten soldiers, who at once
took José into custody. It seemed that he had been
mixed up in some other irregular transaction, and
the officers knew their man. Lobo stated the substance
of his conversation with José, who protested
his innocence in the strongest terms. It was evident
that he preferred to deal with the friends of Raymond,
rather than the civil guard.

The officer of the guard examined the guide very
closely; and his story was quite different from that he
had told Lobo, though he still insisted that the men
whom they had encountered were beggars. The
officer was very prompt in action. José was required
to conduct the party to the spot where the young man
had been captured. Bark and Lobo mounted their
mules again, and Julio led the way as before.

“Can any thing be done in the night?” asked Bark.

“The officer says the night is the best time to hunt
up these gentlemen of the road,” replied Lobo. “They
often make fires, and cook their victuals, for the soldiers
do not like to follow them in the dark.”

When the procession had been in motion an hour
and a quarter, José indicated that it had reached the
place where the beggars—as he still persisted in calling
them—had stopped the traveller. For some reason
or other, he told the truth, halting the soldiers at
the rock which made a corner in the road. He also
indicated the place where the beggars had taken to the
hills. The officer of the civil guard disposed of his
force for a careful but silent search of the region near
the road. Many of the soldiers were familiar with the
locality; for they had examined it in order to become
acquainted with the haunts of brigands. The members
were widely scattered, so as to cover as much territory
as possible. Bark and Lobo were required to remain
with the officer.

Not a sound could be heard while the soldiers were
creeping stealthily about among the rocks, and visiting
the various caverns they had discovered in their former
survey. In less than half an hour, several of the guard
returned together, reporting a fire they had all seen at
about the same time. One of them described the place
as being not more than ten minutes’ walk from the
road; and he knew all about the cave in which the fire
was built.

“The mouth of the cave is covered with mats; but
they do not conceal the light of the fire,” continued
the soldier; and Lobo translated his description to
Bark. “The smoke goes out at a hole in the farther
end of the cave; and, when the brigands are attacked
in front, they will try to escape by this opening in the
rear.”

“We will provide for that,” replied the officer.

He sent out some of the men to call in the rest of
the party; and, at a safe distance from the fire, they
used a whistle for this purpose. In a short time all
the soldiers were collected in the road, at the nearest
point to the cave. The lieutenant sent five of his men
to the rear of the cave, and four to the front, leaving
José in charge of one of them.

“Tell him not to let his men fire into the cave,” said
Bark to the interpreter. “I am afraid they will shoot
Raymond.”

“I will speak to him; but I do not think there will
be any firing,” replied Lobo. “When the beggars find
they are in any danger, they will try to get out at the
hole in the rear; and the lieutenant will bag them as
they come out.”

The officer directed the men in front not to fire at
all, unless the brigands came out of the cave; and not
then, if they could capture them without. Bark and
Lobo accompanied the party to the rear, which started
before the others. They went by a long roundabout
way, creeping like cats the whole distance. They
found the hole, and could see the light of the fire
through the aperture.

The beggars appeared to be having a jolly good
time in the cavern, for they were singing and joking;
and Lobo said they were drinking the health of the
prisoner while he was listening at the aperture. The
lieutenant thought that one of their number had been
to a town, a league from the place, to procure wine
and provisions with the money they had taken from
Raymond; for they could smell the garlic in the stew
that was doubtless cooking on the fire. And this
explained the lateness of the hour at which they were
having their repast.

Bark looked into the hole. It appeared to be
formed of two immense bowlders, which had been
thrown together so as to form an angular space under
them. The aperture was quite small at the rear end,
and the bottom of the cave sloped sharply down to the
part where the beggars were. Raymond could not
be seen; but Bark heard his voice, as he spoke in
cheerful tones, indicating that he had no great fears
for the future. But, while Bark was looking into the
den, the soldiers in front of the cave set up a tremendous
yell, as they had been instructed to do; and the
brigands sprang to their feet.

The rear opening into the cave was partly concealed
by the rocks and trees: and probably the brigands
supposed the cave was unknown to the soldiers. The
officer pulled Bark away from the hole, and placed
himself where he could see into it.

“_Arrida! Alto ahi!_” (Up! Up there!) shouted
one of the brigands; and in a moment Raymond
appeared at the opening, with his hands tied behind
him, urged forward by the leader of the beggars.

They evidently intended to make sure of their prisoner,
and were driving him out of the cave before
them. The moment the first beggar appeared, he was
seized by a couple of the soldiers; and in like manner
four others were captured, for their number had been
increased since Raymond was captured. Bark was
overjoyed when he found that his friend was safe. He
cut the rope that bound his hands behind him, and
then actually hugged him.

“Who are you?” demanded Raymond; for it was too
dark, coming from the bright light of the fire, for him
to identify the person who was so demonstrative.

“Why, don’t you know me, Henry?” asked Bark,
wringing the hand of his friend.

“What! Is it Bark?” demanded Raymond, overwhelmed
with astonishment to find his late associate
at this place.

“Of course it is Bark.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came after you; and I think, under the circumstances,
it is rather fortunate I did come,” added Bark.

“God bless you, Bark! for you have saved me from
these vagabonds, who might have kept me for months,
so that I could not join my ship.”

That was all the harm the fugitive seemed to think
would come of his capture. The soldiers had led the
brigands down into the cavern, and the young men followed
them. The fire was still burning briskly, and
the pot over it was boiling merrily. Everybody was
happy except the brigands; and the leader of these
did not appear to be much disturbed by the accident
that had happened to him.

“_For Dios_,” said Raymond, extending his hand to
this latter worthy.

“_Perdon usted por Dios hermano_,” replied the leader,
shrugging his shoulders.

Raymond informed the lieutenant that this was the
manner the interview on the road had commenced.
The officer ordered the ruffians to be searched; and the
purse and watch of Raymond were found upon the
chief beggar. They were restored to the owner, with
the request that he would see if the money was all in
the purse.

“I was not fool enough to give the beggar all I had,”
answered Raymond. “I have a large sum of money in
my belt, which was not disturbed.”

The good–natured leader of the beggars opened his
eyes at this statement.

“There were six _Isabelinos_ in the purse, and now
there are but five,” added Raymond.

“We spent one of them for food and wine,” said
the gentle beggar. “We had nothing to eat for two
days, till we got some bread we bought with this money.
We were going to have a good supper before we started
for the mountains; but you have spoiled it.”

The officer was good–natured enough to let them eat
their supper, as it was ready by this time. But Raymond
and Bark did not care to wait, and started for
the _venta_, where they intended to pass the night.
Julio walked, and Raymond rode his mule.

“I congratulate the Count de Escarabajosa on his
escape,” said Lobo, as they mounted the mules.

“I thank you; but where did you get that title,
which I will thank you never to apply to me again?”
replied Raymond rather coldly.

“I beg your pardon; but I meant no offence,” said
Lobo, rather startled by the coldness and dignity of
Raymond.

“He is a good friend; and if it hadn’t been for him
I never should have found you, Henry,” interposed
Bark.

“I do not understand where he learned about that
title, and I do not know who he is,” added Raymond.
“If you say he is a friend, Bark, I am satisfied.”

“He is, and a good friend. But why did you leave
Gibraltar so suddenly?” asked Bark, thinking it best
to change the subject.

“I left because I saw you and your companion go
into the Club–House Hotel; and I knew that you
would come to the King’s Arms next,” replied Raymond.

“You left because you saw me!” exclaimed Bark,
astonished at this statement. “Why, I was sent after
you because the principal thought you would not dodge
out of sight if you saw Scott or me.”

“I did not dodge out of sight because I saw you,
but because I saw you had a companion I did not
know: I came to the conclusion that your friend was
the detective sent after me.”

Bark explained who and what Lobo was; and Raymond
apologized to the interpreter for his coldness.
Before the party reached the _venta_, the messenger of
the principal had explained the situation as it was
changed by the death of Don Alejandro. Raymond
was happy in being justified for his past conduct, and
glad that his uncle had died confessing his sins and at
peace with the Church.

The fugitive and his friend were asleep when the
soldiers arrived with the prisoners. In the morning
Raymond read the letter of Don Francisco, and immediately
wrote a reply to it, requesting him to take
charge of his affairs in Barcelona; and to ask the
advice of his uncle in New York. Bark wrote to the
principal a full account of his adventures in search
of Raymond. These letters were mailed at Ronda,
where the prisoners were taken, and where Raymond
had to go as a witness. The testimony was abundant
to convict them all; but Spanish courts were so slow,
that Bark and Raymond were detained in Ronda for
two weeks, though Lobo was sent back to Malaga at
once.

The three brigands were sentenced to a long imprisonment;
the two men who were found in the cave with
them to a shorter term, as accomplices; but nothing
was proved against José. Raymond made a handsome
present to each of the soldiers, and to Julio, for the
service they had rendered him; and, though his gratitude
to Bark could not be expressed in this way, it was
earnest and sincere. Julio and José were still in Ronda
with their mules; and it was decided to return to Gibraltar
as they had come. During their stay in this
mountain city, the two students had seen the sights of
the place; and they departed with a lively appreciation
of this wild locality.

In two days they arrived at Gibraltar, to find that
the fleet had been there, and left. Both of them were
astonished at this information, which was given them
at the King’s Arms, where they had both been guests
before. They had been confident that the squadron
would take her final departure for the “Isles of the
Sea” from this port.

“Left!” exclaimed both of them in the same breath.

“The three vessels sailed three days ago,” replied
the landlord.

“Where have they gone?” asked Raymond, who had
depended upon meeting his friends on board of the
Tritonia that evening.

“That I couldn’t tell you.”

They walked about the town, making inquiries in
regard to the fleet; but no one knew where it had
gone. The custom–house was closed for the day; and
they were obliged to sleep without knowing whether or
not the vessels were on their way across the ocean, or
gone to some port in Spain.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE BULL–FIGHT AT SEVILLE.


“Now we are under the meteor flag of old England,”
said Clyde Blacklock, the fourth lieutenant
of the Prince, after the squadron had come to
anchor off the Rock.

“Do you call that the meteor flag of England?”
laughed Murray, as he pointed to the stars and stripes
at the peak of the steamer.

“We are in British waters anyhow,” replied Clyde.

“That’s so; but the flag you are under just now is
the glorious flag of the United States of America—long
may it wave!”

“They are both glorious flags,” said Dr. Winstock;
“and both nations ought to be proud of what they
have done for the human race.”

“And Johnny Bull is the father of Brother Jonathan,”
added Clyde.

“There is the sunset gun,” said the doctor, as the
report pealed across the water, and a cloud of smoke
rose from one of the numerous batteries on the shore.
“The gates of the town are closed now, and no one is
allowed to enter or leave after this hour.”

The surgeon continued to point out various buildings
and batteries, rather to prevent the students from
engaging in an international wrangle, to which a few
were somewhat inclined, than for any other reason,
though he was always employed in imparting information
to them.

The next morning, as soon as the arrangements were
completed, the several ships’ companies landed at the
same time, and marched in procession to the top of the
hill, where the students were formed in a hollow square
to hear what Professor Mapps had to say about the
Rock. The view was magnificent, for the hill is fourteen
hundred and thirty feet above the sea level.

“Young gentlemen, I know that the view from this
height is grand and beautiful,” the professor began,
“and I cannot blame you for wishing to enjoy it at
once; but I wish you to give your attention to the
history of the Rock for a few minutes, and then I shall
ask Dr. Winstock, who is more familiar with the place
than I am, to point out to you in detail the various
objects under your eye.”

In addition to the twenty non–commissioned officers
who had been detailed to act as guides for the party,
quite a number of superior officers, and not a few
ladies, formed a part of the professor’s audience. The
latter had been attracted by curiosity to follow the students;
and the majors, captains, and lieutenants were
already on speaking–terms with the principal, the vice–principals,
and the professors, though no formal introductions
had taken place; and, before the day was over,
all hands had established a very pleasant relation with
the officers of the garrison and their families.

“When the Phœnicians came to the Rock and to
Cadiz, they believed they had reached the end of the
world; and here they erected one of the two Pillars
of Hercules, which have already been mentioned to
you. The Berbers were the original inhabitants of the
Barbary States; and Tarìk, a leader of this people,
captured the place. He gave his own name to his
conquest, calling it Ghebal–Tarìk, or the Hill of Tarìk.
This was in 711; but Guzman the Good, the first of
the Dukes of Medina Sidonia, recovered it in 1309.
Soon after, the Spanish governor of the Rock stole
the money appropriated for its defence, employing it in
a land speculation at Xeres; and the place surrendered
to the Moors. In 1462 another Duke of Medina Sidonia
drove out the Moslems; and Spain held the Rock
till 1704. In this year, during the war of the Spanish
succession, the fortress was attacked by the combined
forces of the English and the Dutch. The Spanish
garrison consisted of only one hundred and fifty men;
but it killed or disabled nearly twice this number of
the assailants before the Rock was surrendered, which
shows that it was a very strong place even then; and
its defences have been doubled since that time. The
Spaniards have made repeated attempts to recover possession
of the fortress, but without success; and it has
been settled that it is entirely impregnable.”

The English officers applauded this last statement;
and Dr. Winstock, stepping upon the rock which served
the professor for a rostrum, proceeded to point out the
objects on interest in sight.

“You have two grand divisions before you,” said the
surgeon. “On the other side of the strait is Africa,
with its rough steeps. The nest of white houses you
see at the head of the deep bay is Ceuta; and the hill
is the Mount Abyla of the ancients, on which the other
Pillar of Hercules was planted. Turning to the west,
the broad Atlantic is before you. Below is the beautiful
Bay of Gibraltar, with Algeciras on the opposite
side. The village north of us is San Roque; and the
lofty snow–capped mountains in the north–east are the
Sierra Nevadas, which you saw from Granada. Now
look at what is nearer to us. The strait is from twelve
to fifteen miles wide. Perhaps you saw some of the
monkeys that inhabit the Rock on your way up the hill.
Though there are plenty of them on the other side of
the strait, they are not found in a wild state in any
part of Europe except on this Rock. How they got
here, is the conundrum; and some credulous people
insist that there is a tunnel under the strait by which
they came over.

“Below you is Europa Point; or, rather, three
capes with this name. You see the beautiful gardens
near the Point; and in the hands of the English people
the whole Rock blossoms like the rose, while, if any
other people had it, it would be a desolate waste.
Stretching out into the bay, near the dockyard, is the
new mole, which is seven hundred feet long. The one
near the landing–port is eleven hundred feet; but it
shelters only the small craft. The low, sandy strip of
ground that bounds the Rock on the north is the Neutral
Ground, where the sentinels of the two countries
are always on duty. This strip of land is diked, so
that it can be inundated and rendered impassable to an
army in a few moments.”

The doctor finished his remarks, but we have not
reported all that he said; nor have we space for the
speeches of a couple of the English officers who were
invited to address the students, though they gave much
information in regard to the fortress and garrison life
at the Rock. The crowd was divided into small parties,
and spent the rest of the day in exploring the fortifications
with the guides. As usual, the doctor had
the captain and first lieutenant under his special charge.

“The east and south sides of the Rock, as you
observed when we came into the bay from Malaga,”
said he, “are almost perpendicular; and at first sight
it would seem to be absurd to fortify a steep which no
one could possibly ascend. But an enemy would find
a way to get up if it were not for the guns that cover
this part of the Rock. The north end is also too steep
to climb. The west side, where we came up by the
zigzag path, has a gentler slope; and this is protected
by batteries in every direction.”

“I can see the guns of the batteries; but I do not
see any on the north and east sides of the Rock,” said
Sheridan.

“The edges of the Rock on all sides are tunnelled:
and these galleries form a series of casemates, with
embrasures, or port–holes, every thirty or forty yards,
through which the great guns are pointed. These galleries
are in tiers, or stories, and there are miles of
them. They were made just before the French Revolution
began, nearly a hundred years after the English
got possession.”

“They must have cost a pile of money,” suggested
Murray.

“Yes; and it costs a pile of money to support them,”
added the doctor. “Five thousand troops are kept
here in time of peace. Some British statesmen have
advocated the policy of giving or selling the Rock to
Spain; for it has been a standing grievance to this
power to have England own a part of the peninsula.
But in other than a military view the Rock is valuable
to England. Whatever wars may be in progress on the
face of the earth, her naval and commercial vessels can
always find shelter in the port of Gibraltar.”

“But I don’t see how it could prevent ships of
war from entering the Mediterranean Sea,” added
Sheridan.

“I doubt whether it could ever do that except by
sheltering a fleet to do the fighting; for no gun in
existence could send a shot ten or twelve miles,” replied
the doctor.

By this time the party had reached the entrance of
the galleries, and they went in to view what the surgeon
had described. The students were amazed at the extent
of the tunnels, and the vast quantities of shot and shell
piled up in every part of the works; at the great guns,
and the appliances for handling them. They walked
till they were tired out; and then the party descended
to the town for a lunch.

“This isn’t much of a city,” said Murray, as they
walked through its narrow and crooked streets to Commercial
Square, where the hotels are located.

“I believe the people do not brag of it, though it
contains much that is interesting,” replied the doctor.
“You find all sorts of people here: there are Moors,
Jews, Greeks, Portuguese, and Spaniards, besides the
English. This is a free port, and vast quantities of
goods are smuggled into Spain from this town.”

They lunched at the Club–House; and it was a luxury
to sit at the table with English people, who do not
wear their hats, or smoke between the courses. After
this important duty had been disposed of, the party
walked to the _alameda_, as the Spaniards call it, or
the parade and public garden as the English have it.
It is an exceedingly pleasant retreat to an English–speaking
traveller who has just come from Spain, for
every thing is in the English fashion. It contains a
monument to the Duke of Wellington, and another to
General Lord Heathfield. The party enjoyed this
garden so much that they remained there till it was
time to go on board of the ship.

Three days were spent at the Rock, and many courtesies
were exchanged between the sailors and the soldiers.
The students saw a review of a brigade, and
the officers were feasted at the mess–rooms of the garrison.
The principal was sorely tried when he saw the
wine passing around among the military men; but the
students drank the toasts in water. In return for these
civilities, the officers were invited on board of the
vessels of the squadron; the yards were manned; the
crews were exercised in the various evolutions of seamanship;
and a bountiful collation was served in each
vessel. Everybody was happy.

Dr. Winstock was a little more “gamy” than the
principal; and, when he heard that there was to be a
bull–fight at Seville on Easter Sunday, he declared that
it would be a pity to take the students away from Spain
without seeing the national spectacle. He suggested
that the ceremonies of Holy Week would also be very
interesting. The question was discussed for a long
time. All the rest of their lives these young men
would be obliged to say that they had been to Spain
without seeing a bull–fight. The professors were consulted;
and they were unanimously in favor of making
a second visit to Seville. It was decided to adopt the
doctor’s suggestion.

“But it will be impossible to get into the hotels,”
added Dr. Winstock. “They all double their prices,
and are filled to overflowing for several days before the
ceremonies begin.”

“Then, why did you suggest the idea of going?”
laughed the principal. “The boys must have something
to eat, and a place to sleep.”

“I think we can do better than to go to the hotels,
even if we could get into them,” replied the doctor.
“The Guadalquiver is very high at the present time,
and the fleet will go up to Seville without quarrelling
with the bottom. We can anchor off the _Toro del Oro_,
and save all the hotel–bills.”

This plan was adopted; and the order to coal the
steamer for the voyage across the Atlantic was rescinded,
so that she might go up the river as light as
possible. Half a dozen officers of the garrison were
taken as passengers, guests of the officers, for the excursion,
as the steamer was to return to the Rock. On
Tuesday morning the fleet sailed. While the schooners
remained off Cadiz, the Prince ran in and obtained
three pilots,—a father and his two sons,—and distributed
them among the vessels. At the mouth of the
river the Prince took her consorts in tow. They were
lashed together, and a hawser extended to each of
them. Off Bonanza the vessels anchored for the
night; for the pilots would not take the risk of running
in the darkness. In the morning the voyage was
renewed. Portions of the country were flooded with
water, for the ice and snows in the mountains were
melting in the warm weather of spring. Indeed, there
was so much water that it bothered the pilot of the
steamer to keep in the channel, for the high water
covered some of his landmarks. There were some
sharp turns to be made; and the pilots in the Tritonia
and Josephine had to be as active as their father in the
steamer; for, in making these curves, the hawser of the
outer vessel had to be slacked off; and, when the ropes
were well run out, the steamer was stopped, and they
were hauled in. But, before sunset, the fleet was at
anchor off Seville.

The next day was Holy Thursday, and all hands
were landed to see the sights. The city was crowded
with people. All along the streets through which the
procession was to pass, seats were arranged for the
spectators, which were rented for the occasion, as in
the large cities at home. The trip to Seville had been
decided upon a week before the vessels arrived, and
while they were at Malaga. Couriers had been sent
ahead to engage places for the procession, and in
the _Coliseo de Toros_. Lobo and Ramos were on the
quay when the boats landed; and the students were
conducted to the places assigned to them. They went
early, and had to wait a long time; but the people
were almost as interesting as the “_Gran Funcion_” as
they call any spectacle, whether it be a bull–fight or a
church occasion.

Not only was the street where they were seated full
of people, but all the houses were dressed in the gayest
of colors; and no one would have suspected that
the occasion was a religious ceremony. Printed programmes
of all the details of the procession had been
hawked about the streets for the last two days, and
Lobo had procured a supply of them; but unfortunately,
as they were in Spanish, hardly any of the students
could make use of them, though the surgeon,
the professors, and the couriers, translated the main
items for them.

“I suppose you both understand the meaning of the
procession we are about to see,” said the doctor, while
they waiting.

“I don’t,” replied Murray. “My father is a
Scotchman, and I was brought up in the kirk.”

“The week begins with Palm Sunday, which commemorates
the entry of Christ into Jerusalem, when
the people cast palm–branches before him; Holy
Thursday celebrates the institution of the Lord’s Supper;
Good Friday, the crucifixion; Holy Saturday is
when water used in baptism is blessed; and Easter
Sunday, the greatest of all the holy days except
Christmas, is in honor of the resurrection of the
Saviour. On Holy Thursday, in Madrid, the late
queen used to wash the feet of a dozen beggars, as
Christ washed the feet of his disciples. I hear music,
and I think the procession is coming.”

It was not church music which the band at the head
of the procession played, but lively airs from the
operas. A line of soldiers formed in front of the spectators
that filled the street, to keep them back; and the
procession soon came in sight. To say that the boys
were amused would be to express it mildly as the leading
feature of the show came into view. It seemed to
be a grand masquerade, or a tremendous burlesque.
First came a number of persons dressed in long robes
of white, black, or violet, gathered up at the waist by a
leather belt. On their heads they wore enormous fools’
caps, in the shape of so many sugar–loaves, but at least
four feet high.

“You mustn’t laugh so as to be observed,” said the
doctor to the first lieutenant. “These are the penitents.”

“They ought to be penitent for coming out in such a
rig,” laughed Murray.

A pointed piece of cloth fell from the tall cap of the
penitents over the face and down upon the breast, with
round holes for the eyes. Some carried torches, and
others banners with the arms of some religious order
worked on them. These people were a considerable
feature of the procession, and they were to be seen
through the whole length of it.

After them came some men dressed as Roman soldiers,
with helmet, cuirass, and yellow tunic, representing
the soldiers that took part in the crucifixion. They
were followed by a kind of car, which seemed to float
along without the help of any bearers; but it was carried
by men under it whose forms were concealed by
the surrounding drapery that fell to the ground, forming
a very effective piece of stage machinery. The car
was richly ornamented with gold and velvet, and bore
on its top rail several elegant and fancifully shaped
lanterns in which candles were burning.

On the car was a variety of subjects represented by
a dozen figures, carved in wood and painted to the life.
Above all the others rose Christ and the two thieves on
the crosses. The Virgin Mary was the most noticeable
figure. She was dressed in an elegant velvet robe,
embroidered with gold, with a lace handkerchief in her
hand. A velvet mantle reached from her shoulders
over the rail of the car to the ground. Her train was
in charge of an angel, who managed it according to her
own taste and fancy. On the car were other angels,
who seemed to be more ornamental than useful.

The rest of the procession was made up of similar
materials,—holy men, women and children, crosses,
images of saints, such as have often been seen and described.
During the rest of the week, the students
visited the cathedral, where they saw the blackened
remains of King Ferdinand, and other relics that are
exhibited at this time, as well as several other of the
churches. Easter Sunday came, and the general joy
was as extravagantly manifested as though the resurrection
were an event of that day. Early in the afternoon
crowds of gayly dressed people of all classes and ranks
began to crowd towards the bull–ring. All over the
city were posted placards announcing this _Gran Funcion_,
with overdrawn pictures of the scenes expected to
transpire in the arena. We have one of these bills
before us as we write.

“As we are to take part in the _Funcion_, we will go
to the _plaza_” said the doctor, as he and his friends
left the cathedral.

“Take part!” exclaimed Murray. “I have no idea
of fighting a bull. I would rather be on board of the
ship.”

“Perhaps I should have said ‘assist in the _Funcion_,’
which is the usual way of expressing it in Spain.”

“Who is this?” said Sheridan, as a couple of young
men wearing the uniform of the squadron approached
the party. “Upon my word, it is Raimundo!”

The young men proved to be Raymond and Bark
Lingall, just arrived from Gibraltar. The fugitive had
resumed his uniform when he expected to join the Tritonia;
and, if he had asked any officer of the garrison
where the fleet had gone, he could have informed him.
In the evening one of them spoke to Raymond at the
hotel, asking him how it happened that he had not
gone to Seville. This led to an explanation. Raymond
and Bark had taken a steamer to Cadiz the next
day, and had just arrived in a special train, in season
for the bull–fight. The surgeon, who knew all about
Raymond’s history, gave him a cordial greeting; and
so did his shipmates of the Tritonia.

“You are just in time to assist at the bull–fight,”
said Scott, who readily took up the Spanish style of
expressing it, for it seemed like a huge joke to him.

“I don’t care for the bull–fight, but I am glad to be
with the fellows once more,” replied Raymond, as he
seated himself with the officers of the vessel.

Before the show began, he had reported himself to
Mr. Lowington and Mr. Pelham; and some of the students
who did not understand the matter thought he
received a very warm greeting for a returned runaway.
But all hands were thinking of the grand spectacle;
and not much attention was given to Raymond and
Bark, except by their intimate friends.

“If the people are so fond of these shows, I should
think they would have more of them,” said Sheridan.
“This is the first chance we have had to see one; and
we have been in Spain four months.”

“They cost too much money; and only the large
places can afford to have them,” replied the doctor.
“It costs about two thousand dollars to get one up in
good style. I will tell you all about the performers as
they come in.”

“But what are all those people doing in the ring?”
asked Murray; for the arena was filled with spectators
walking about, chatting and smoking.

“They are the men who will occupy the lower seats,
which are not very comfortable; and they prefer to
walk about till the performance begins. They are all
deeply interested in the affair, and are talking it over.”

“I don’t see many ladies here,” said Sheridan. “I
was told that they all attend the bull–fights.”

“I should think that one–third of the audience were
ladies,” replied the doctor, looking about the _plaza_.
“At those I attended in Madrid, there were not five
hundred ladies present.”

The _Plaza de Toros_ at Seville, which the people dignify
by calling it the _Coliseum_, is about the same size
as the one at Madrid, open at the top, and will seat
ten or twelve thousand people. It is circular in form,
and the walls may be twenty or twenty–five feet high.
Standing in the ring, the lower part of the structure
looks much like a country circus on a very large scale;
the tiers of seats for the common people sloping down
from half the height of the walls to the arena, which
is enclosed by a strong fence about five feet high.
Inside of the heavy fence enclosing the ring, is another,
which separates the spectators from a kind of avenue
all around the arena; and above this is stretched a
rope, to prevent the bull, in case he should leap the
inner fence, from going over among the spectators.
This avenue between the two fences is for the use of
the performers and various hangers–on at the _funcion_.

Above the sloping rows of seats, are balconies, or
boxes as they would be called in a theatre. They are
roofed over, and the front of them presents a continuous
colonnade supporting arches, behind which are sloping
rows of cushioned seats. In hot weather, awnings
are placed in front of those exposed to the sun. Opposite
the gates by which the bull is admitted is an elaborately
ornamented box for the “_autoridad_” and the
person who presides over the spectacle. The latter
was often the late queen, in Madrid; and on the present
occasion it was the _infanta_, the Marquesa de Montpensier.
This box was dressed with flags and bright colors.

During the gathering of the vast audience, which
some estimated at fifteen thousand, a band had been
playing. Punctually at three o’clock came a flourish
of trumpets, and two _alguacils_, dressed in sober black,
rode into the ring; and the people there vacated it,
leaping over the fences to their seats. When the arena
was clear, another blast announced the first scene of the
tragedy.

“Now we have a procession of the performers,” said
the doctor to his pupils. “The men on horseback are
_picadores_, from _pica_, a lance; and you see that each
rider carries one.”

These men were dressed in full Spanish costume,
and wore broad sombreros on their heads, something
like a tarpaulin. They were mounted on old hacks of
horses, worn out by service on the cabs or omnibuses.
They are blindfolded during the fight, to keep them
from dodging the bull. The legs of the men are cased
in splints of wood and sole–leather to protect them
from the horns of the bull. Each of them is paid a
hundred dollars for each _corrida_, or performance.

“Those men with the red and yellow mantles, or
cloaks, on their arms, are the _chulos_, whose part is to
worry the bull, and to call him away from the _picador_,
or other actor who is in danger,” continued the surgeon.
“Next to them are the _banderilleros_; and the
dart adorned with many colored ribbons is called a
_banderilla_. You will see what this is for when the
time comes. The last are the _matadors_, or _espadas_;
and each of them carries a Toledo blade. They are
the heroes of the fight; and, when they are skilful,
their reputation extends all over Spain. Montes, one
of the most celebrated of them, was killed in a _corrida_
in Madrid. Cuchares was another not less noted; and,
when I saw him, he was received with a demonstration
of applause that would have satisfied a king of Spain.
I don’t know what has become of him. I see that the
names of four _espadas_ are given on the bill, besides a
supernumerary in case of accident. The _espadas_
receive from two to three hundred dollars for a _corrida_;
the _banderilleros_, from fifty to seventy–five; and
the _chulos_, from fifteen to twenty.”

An _alguacil_ now entered the ring, and, walking over
to the box of the authorities, asked permission to
begin the fight. The key of the bull–pen was given to
him. He returned, gave it to the keeper of the gate;
and made haste to save himself by jumping over the
fence, to the great amusement of the vast audience.

Most of the students had been informed what all
this meant by the interpreters and others; and they
waited with no little emotion for the conflict to commence.
The bull had been goaded to fury in the
pen; and, when the gates were thrown open, he rushed
with a bellowing snort into the ring. At first he
seemed to be startled by the strange sight before him,
and halted at the gate, which had been closed behind
him. Two _picadores_ had been stationed on opposite
sides of the arena; and, as soon as the bull saw the
nearest of these, he dashed towards him. The _picador_
received him on the point of his lance, and turned him
off. The animal then went for the other, who warded
him off in the same way. The audience did not seem
to be satisfied with this part of the performance, and
yelled as if they had been cheated out of something.
It was altogether too tame for them.

Then the first _picador_, at these signs of disapprobation,
rode to the middle of the ring; and the bull made
another onslaught upon him. This time he tumbled
horse and rider in a heap on the ground. Then the
_chulos_ put in an appearance, and with their red and
yellow cloaks attracted the attention of the bull, thus
saving the _picador_ from further harm. While the bull
was chasing some of the _chulos_, more of them went to
the assistance of the fallen rider, whose splinted legs
did not permit him to rise alone. He was pulled out
from beneath his nag; and the poor animal got up,
goaded to do so by the kicks of the brutal performers.
His stomach had been ripped open by the horns of the
bull, and his entrails dragged upon the ground.

Some of the students turned pale, and were made
sick by the cruel sight. A few of them were obliged to
leave their places, which they did amidst the laughter
of the Spaniards near them. But the audience applauded
heartily, and appeared to be satisfied now that
a horse had been gored so terribly. The _picador_ was
lifted upon the mangled steed, and he rode about the
ring with the animal’s entrails dragging under him.
The _chulos_ played with the bull for a time, till the
people became impatient; and then he was permitted
to attack the horses again. The one injured before
dropped dead under the next assault, to the great
relief of the American spectators. The audience became
stormy again, and two more horses were killed
without appeasing them.

“Now we shall have the _banderilleros_,” said the
doctor, as a flourish of trumpets came from the bandstand.

“I have got about enough of it,” said Sheridan
faintly.

“Brace yourself up, and you will soon become more
accustomed to it. You ought to see one bull killed,”
added the surgeon.

Two men with _banderillas_ in their hands now entered
the ring. These weapons have barbs, so that, when the
point is driven into the flesh of the bull, they stick fast,
and are not shaken out by the motion of the animal.
These men were received with applause; but it was
evident that the temper of the assembled multitude
required prompt and daring deeds of them. There was
to be no unnecessary delay, no dodging or skulking.
They were bold fellows, and seemed to be ready for
business. One of them showed himself to the bull;
and the beast made for him without an instant’s hesitation.

The _banderillero_ held his ground as though he had
been tied to the spot; and it looked as if he was
surely to be transfixed by the horns of the angry bull.
Suddenly, as the animal dropped his head to use his
horns, the man swung the _banderillas_ over his shoulders,
and planted both of the darts just behind the neck of
the beast, and then dexterously slipped out of the way.
This feat was applauded tremendously, and the yells
seemed to shake the arena. Vainly the bull tried to
shake off the darts, roaring with the pain they gave
him.

Another flourish of trumpets announced the last
scene of the tragedy, and one of the _espadas_ bounded
lightly into the ring. He was greeted with hearty
applause; and, walking over to the front of the _marquesa’s_
box, he bent down on one knee, and made a
grandiloquent speech, to the effect that for the honor of
the city, in the name of the good people there assembled,
and for the benefit of the hospital, he would kill
the bull or be killed himself in the attempt, if her
highness would graciously accord him the permission to
do so. The _infanta_ kindly consented; and the _espada_
whirled his hat several times over his head, finally jerking
it under his left arm over the fence. In his hand
he carried a crimson banner, which he presented to the
bull; and this was enough to rouse all his fury again.

[Illustration: THE BULL–FIGHT AT SEVILLE. Page 406.]

For a time he played with the furious beast, which
continually plunged at the red banner, the man skilfully
stepping aside. At last he seemed to be prepared
for the final blow. Holding the banner in his
left hand, he permitted the bull to make a dive at it;
and, while his head was down, he reached over his
horns with the sword, and plunged it in between the
shoulder–blades. His aim was sure: he had pierced the
heart, and the bull dropped dead. Again the applause
shook the arena, and the audience in the lower part of
the building hurled their hats and caps into the ring;
and a shower of cigars, mingled with an occasional
piece of silver, followed the head–gear. The victorious
_espada_ picked up the cigars and money, bowing his
thanks all the time, while the _chulos_ tossed back the
hats and caps.

“‘You can take my hat’ is what they mean by that,
I suppose,” said Murray.

“That is one of the ways a Spanish audience has
of expressing their approbation in strong terms,” replied
the doctor.

A team of half a dozen mules, tricked out in the
gayest colors, galloped into the ring; and, when a sling
had been passed over the horns of the dead bull, he
was dragged out at a side gate. The doors had hardly
closed upon the last scene before the main gates were
thrown wide open again, and another bull bounded into
the arena, where the _picadores_ and the _chulos_ were
already in position for action. The second act was
about like the first. Four horses were killed by the
second bull, which was even more savage than the
first. The _banderillero_ was unfortunate in his first
attempt, and was hooted by the audience; but in a
second attempt he redeemed himself. The _espada_ got
his sword into the bull; but he did not hit the vital
part, and he was unable to withdraw his weapon. The
animal flew around the ring with the sword in his
shoulders, while the audience yelled, and taunted the
unlucky hero. It was not allowable for him to take
another sword; and the bull was lured to the side of
the ring, where the _espada_ leaped upon a screen, and
recovered his blade. In a second trial he did the
business so handsomely that he regained the credit he
had temporarily lost.

Many of the students did not stay to see the second
bull slain; and not more than half of them staid till
the conclusion of the _funcion_. One of the last of the
bulls would not fight at all, and evidently belonged to
the peace society; but neither the audience nor the
_lidiadores_ had any mercy for him.

“_Perros! Perros!_” shouted the audience, when it
was found that the bull had no pluck.

“_Perros! Perros!_” screamed some of the wildest
of the students, without having the least idea what the
word meant.

“What does all that mean?” asked Murray.

“_Perros_ means dogs. Not long ago, when a bull
would not fight, they used to set dogs upon him to
worry and excite him,” answered the doctor.

“Well, will they set the dogs upon him?” inquired
Murray.

“No, I suppose not; for here in the bill it says, ‘No
dogs will be used; but fire–_banderillas_ will be substituted
for bulls that will not fight at the call of the
authorities.’”

This expedient was resorted to in the present case;
the bull was frightened, and showed a little pluck.
After he had upset a _picador_, and charged on a _chulo_,
he leaped over the fence into the avenue. The loafers
gathered there sprang into the ring; but the animal
was speedily driven back, and was finally killed without
having done any great damage to the horses.

The last bull was the fiercest of them all; and he
came into the arena roaring like a lion. He demolished
two _picadores_ in the twinkling of an eye, and
made it lively for all the performers. “_Bravo, Toro!_”
shouted the people, for they applaud the bull as well
as the actors. The _espada_ stabbed him three times
before he killed him.

Six bulls and seventeen horses had been slain: the
last one had killed five. Even the most insensible of
the students had had enough of it; and most of them
declared that it was the most barbarous spectacle they
had ever seen. They pitied the poor horses, and some
of them would not have been greatly distressed if the
bull had tossed up a few of the performers. The doctor
was disgusted, though he had done his best to have
the students see this _cosa de España_. The principal
refused to go farther than the gate of the _plaza_.

“I don’t care to see another,” said Dr. Winstock
to his Spanish friend, who sat near him. “It is barbarous;
and I hope the people of Spain will soon
abolish these spectacles.”

“Barbarous, is it?” laughed the Spanish gentleman.
“Do you think it is any worse than the prize–fights you
have in England and America?”

“Only a few low ruffians go to prize–fights in England
and America,” replied the doctor warmly. “They
are forbidden by law, and those who engage in them
are sent to the penitentiary. But bull–fights are managed
by the authorities of the province, presided over
by the queen or members of the royal family.”

All hands returned to the vessels of the squadron;
and early the next morning the fleet sailed for Gibraltar.
The river was still very high; and, though the
Prince stirred up the mud once or twice, she reached
the mouth of the river in good time, and the squadron
stood away for the Rock, where it arrived the next day.

Raymond was delighted to be on board of the Tritonia
again, and at his duties. Enough of his story was
told to the students to enable them to understand his
case, and why he had been excused for running away.
New rank had been assigned at the beginning of the
month, and Raymond found on his return that he was
second master, as before; the faculty voting that he
was entitled to his old rank.

Bark Lingall had worked a full month since his
reformation; and when he went on board the Tritonia,
at Seville, he was delighted to find that he was third
master, and entitled to a place in the cabin. On the
voyage to Gibraltar, he wore the uniform of his rank,
and made no complaint of the sneers of Ben Pardee
and Lon Gibbs, who had not yet concluded to turn over
a new leaf.

As soon as the Prince had coaled, and the vessels
were watered and provisioned for the voyage, the fleet
sailed; and what new climes the students visited, and
what adventures they had, will be related in “Isles of
the Sea; or, Young America Homeward Bound.”



LEE & SHEPARD’S

LIST OF

JUVENILE PUBLICATIONS.



OLIVER OPTIC’S BOOKS.

Each Set in a neat Box with Illuminated Titles.


=Army and Navy Stories.= A Library for Young and
Old, in 6 volumes. 16mo. Illustrated. Per vol.           =$1 50=

  The Soldier Boy.           The Yankee Middy.
  The Sailor Boy.            Fighting Joe.
  The Young Lieutenant.      Brave Old Salt.

=Famous “Boat–Club” Series.= A Library for Young
People. Handsomely Illustrated. Six volumes, in neat
box. Per vol.                                             =1 25=

The Boat Club; or, The Bunkers of Rippleton.
All Aboard; or, Life on the Lake.
Now or Never; or, The Adventures of Bobby Bright.
Try Again; or, The Trials and Triumphs of Harry West.
Poor and Proud; or, The Fortunes of Katy Redburn.
Little by Little; or, The Cruise of the Flyaway.


=Lake Shore Series, The.= Six volumes. Illustrated.
In neat box. Per vol.                                     =1 25=

Through by Daylight; or, The Young Engineer of the Lake Shore Railroad.
Lightning Express; or, The Rival Academies.
On Time, or, The Young Captain of the Ucayga Steamer.
Switch Off, or, The War of the Students.
Break Up; or, The Young Peacemakers.
Bear and Forbear; or, The Young Skipper of Lake Ucayga.


=Soldier Boy Series, The.= Three volumes, in neat
box. Illustrated. Per vol.                                =1 50=

The Soldier Boy; or, Tom Somers in the Army.
The Young Lieutenant; or, The Adventures of an Army Officer.
Fighting Joe; or, The Fortunes of a Staff Officer.


=Sailor Boy Series, The.= Three volumes in neat box.
Illustrated. Per vol.                                     =1 50=

The Sailor Boy; or, Jack Somers in the Navy.
The Yankee Middy; or, Adventures of a Naval Officer.
Brave Old Salt; or, Life on the Quarter–Deck.


=Starry Flag Series, The.= Six volumes. Illustrated.
Per vol.                                                  =1 25=

The Starry Flag; or, The Young Fisherman of Cape Ann.
Breaking Away; or, The Fortunes of a Student.
Seek and Find; or, The Adventures of a Smart Boy.
Freaks of Fortune; or, Half Round the World.
Make or Break; or, The Rich Man’s Daughter.
Down the River; or, Buck Bradford and the Tyrants.


=The Household Library.= 3 volumes. Illustrated.
Per volume                                                =1 50=

  Living too Fast.          In Doors and Out.
             The Way of the World.


=Way of the World, The.= By William T. Adams (Oliver
Optic)                                              12mo. =1 50=


=Woodville Stories.= Uniform with Library for Young
People. Six volumes. Illustrated. Per vol.          16mo. =1 25=

Rich and Humble; or, The Mission of Bertha Grant.
In School and Out; or, The Conquest of Richard Grant.
Watch and Wait; or, The Young Fugitives.
Work and Win; or, Noddy Newman on a Cruise.
Hope and Have; or, Fanny Grant among the Indians.
Haste and Waste; or, The Young Pilot of Lake Champlain.


=Yacht Club Series.= Uniform with the ever popular
“Boat Club” Series. Completed in six vols. Illustrated.
Per vol.                                            16mo. =1 50=

Little Bobtail; or, The Wreck of the Penobscot.
The Yacht Club; or, The Young Boat Builders.
Money Maker; or, The Victory of the Basilisk.
The Coming Wave; or, The Treasure of High Rock,
The Dorcas Club; or, Our Girls Afloat.
Ocean Born; or, The Cruise of the Clubs.


=Onward and Upward Series, The.= Complete in six
volumes. Illustrated. In neat box. Per vol.               =1 25=

Field and Forest; or, The Fortunes of a Farmer.
Plane and Plank; or, The Mishaps of a Mechanic.
Desk and Debit; or, The Catastrophes of a Clerk.
Cringle and Cross–Tree; or, The Sea Swashes of a Sailor.
Bivouac and Battle; or, The Struggles of a Soldier.
Sea and Shore; or, The Tramps of a Traveller.


=Young America Abroad Series.= A Library of
Travel and Adventure in Foreign Lands. Illustrated
by Nast, Stevens, Perkins, and others. Per vol.     16mo. =1 50=

_First Series._

Outward Bound; or, Young America Afloat.
Shamrock and Thistle; or, Young America in Ireland and Scotland.
Red Cross; or, Young America in England and Wales.
Dikes and Ditches, or, Young America in Holland and Belgium.
Palace and Cottage; or, Young America in France and Switzerland.
Down the Rhine; or, Young America in Germany.

_Second Series._

Up the Baltic; or, Young America in Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.
Northern Lands; or, Young America in Russia and Prussia.
Cross and Crescent; or, Young America in Turkey and Greece.
Sunny Shores; or, Young America in Italy and Austria.
Vine and Olive; or, Young America in Spain and Portugal.
Isles of the Sea; or, Young America Homeward Bound.


=Riverdale Stories.= Twelve volumes. A New Edition.
Profusely Illustrated from new designs by Billings. In
neat box. Per vol.

  Little Merchant.          Proud and Lazy.
  Young Voyagers.           Careless Kate.
  Robinson Crusoe, Jr.      Christmas Gift.
  Dolly and I.              The Picnic Party.
  Uncle Ben.                The Gold Thimble.
  Birthday Party.

=Riverdale Story Books.= Six volumes, in neat box.
Cloth. Per vol.

  Little Merchant.          Proud and Lazy.
  Young Voyagers.           Careless Kate.
  Dolly and I.              Robinson Crusoe, Jr.

=Flora Lee Story Books.= Six volumes in neat box.
Cloth. Per vol.

  Christmas Gift.           The Picnic Party.
  Uncle Ben.                The Gold Thimble.
  Birthday Party.           The Do–Somethings.

=Great Western Series, The.= Six volumes. Illustrated.
Per vol.                                                  =1 50=

Going West; or, The Perils of a Poor Boy.
Out West; or, Roughing it on the Great Lakes.
Lake Breezes.


=Our Boys’ and Girls’ Offering.= Containing Oliver
Optic’s popular Story, Ocean Born; or, The Cruise of the
Clubs; Stories of the Seas, Tales of Wonder, Records
of Travel, &c. Edited by Oliver Optic. Profusely
Illustrated. Covers printed in Colors. 8vo.               =1 50=


=Our Boys’ and Girls’ Souvenir.= Containing Oliver
Optic’s Popular Story, Going West; or. The Perils of a
Poor Boy; Stories of the Sea, Tales of Wonder, Records
of Travel, &c. Edited by Oliver Optic. With numerous
full–page and letter–press Engravings. Covers
printed in Colors. 8vo.                                   =1 50=



                               FOOTNOTE:

[1] King Amedeo abdicated Feb. 11, 1874; and Alfonso XII., son of
Isabella II., was proclaimed king of Spain Dec. 31, 1874, thus
restoring the Bourbons to the throne. Alfonso was about seventeen when
he became king.





*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Vine and Olive; Or Young America in Spain and Portugal - A Story of Travel and Adventure" ***

Doctrine Publishing Corporation provides digitized public domain materials.
Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians.
This effort is time consuming and expensive, so in order to keep providing
this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties,
including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Doctrine Publishing
Corporation's ISYS search for use by individuals, and we request that you
use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort
to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.



Home