University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

When Don Amador found himself alone in the
prison with Fabueno, with no other prospect before
him than that of remaining therein till it might please
the stars to throw open the doors, the rage that was

too philosophic to quarrel with stone walls, gradually
subsided into a tranquil indignation. Nay, so much
command of himself did he regain, that hearing his
companion bewailing his fate in a manner somewhat
immoderate, as if regarding his incarceration as the
prelude to a more dismal destiny, he opened his lips
to give him comfort.

“I must counsel thee, friend Lorenzo,” he said,
“to give over this vain and very boyish lamentation,
as being entirely unworthy the spirit I beheld thee
display in presence of that Biscayan boar. The insult
and shame of our present imprisonment are what
thou dost not share; and therefore thou shouldst not
be grieved on that account. And, doubtless, as thou
wert arrested less because thou wert in fault, than
because this foolish governor was in a passion, he
will liberate thee, when he cools in the morning.”

“I have no such hope,” said Fabueno, piteously.
“Don Panfilo is a most bitter and unforgiving man,
sudden in his wrath, inexorable in his vengeance; and
he has already indulged his fury at the expense of men
so much more elevated and powerful than myself,
that I am in great fear he will give me to some
heavy punishment, for daring to oppose his humours.”

“Know, Lorenzo,” said the novice, “that, in that
opposition, thou didst show thyself possessed of a
spirit which has won my respect; and unless thou
dost already repent thy boldness, I will confess I
am very grateful to thee, that thou didst grasp thy
sword in my cause. For which reason, when we
are again free, I will beseech the admiral to grant
thee thy wish, and immediately receive thee into my
service, as a pupil in war.”

“And how is your worship to be freed?” said Lorenzo,
disconsolately. “Sure am I, Don Panfilo will
no more regard your worship's honour and dignity
than he did the privileges of the licentiate Vasques
de Ayllon, the agent of the holy monks of San Geronimo,
and, what is more, an oidor of the king himself;
whom, notwithstanding all these titles, he imprisoned

and banished, for thwarting him in a small
matter.”

“I have, in my own present situation, a sufficient
and never-to-be-forgotten proof of his violence and
injustice,” said Amador. “Nevertheless, I entertain
hopes of being soon at freedom; for if some lucky
opportunity do not enable me myself to break my
bonds. I am assured, the news of this most causeless
and tyrannical outrage will, in some way, be carried
to the ears of my kinsman, the knight Calavar; after
which, I shall be very confident of liberation, and,
after liberation, as I may add, of satisfaction on the
body of my wronger. But, before we give ourselves
up to despondence, let us see in what manner we
may be able to help ourselves. We should at least
look a little to the various entrances that seem to lead
into this dungeon.”

The apartment was spacious, but low; a narrow
casement opened on one side, at the distance of six
feet from the floor, and admitted the moonbeams, by
which the captives were enabled to conduct their
examination. The door, through which they had entered,
was strongly barricaded on the outside. A
passage leading to the interior, was similarly secured,
and equally impassable. The neophyte, with a sigh,
turned to the casement. A thick grating defended it,
and shut out all hopes of escape.

“We can do nothing, unless assisted from without,”
said Amador.—“I would to heaven, I had kept
my knaves at my side! With such a wary servant
as Baltasar at my back, and so faithful a desperado
as Lazaro at my side, I should have made another
sort of departure from that abhorred tower. The
varlets are perhaps sleeping in security, without a
thought of their master. Nay, by my faith, it is not
probable they should give themselves to rest, without
being made acquainted with my instructions for the
night. Perhaps they may be lurking in the neighbourhood,
ready to hear my call, and to obey it! At
all events, señor secretary, I would thou couldst

mount to those iron stanchions, and take note of
what is passing on the outside.”

“Iron!” cried the secretary quickly: “by San Iago
of Compostella! a thought strikes me. I know well,
señor, that in these lands, iron has almost the value
of gold, and is too scarce to be wasted on the defences
of a temporary dungeon, where it might be
stolen too, at the first opportunity, by the Indians.”

“Dost thou mean to say, that these bars are of
wood?” demanded Amador.

“Indeed, I think so, señor; and if I had but a knife
or dagger, and the means of climbing into the window,
I would warrant to be at liberty before morning.”

“Here is a poniard, of which the villains forgot to
divest me,” said Amador. “Strike it against the
stanchions:—if they be of wood, we have much hope
of freeing ourselves.”

The secretary did as he was directed. He raised
himself a-tiptoe, and the sharp weapon buried itself
in the flimsy barrier.

“If I had but something to stand on,” he cried
eagerly, “how soon might we not be free!”

“There is neither stool nor chair in this vile den,”
said Don Amador; “but I will not shame to give
thee the support of my shoulder, and the more readily,
that I think thy slight frame would be incapable
of supporting my own greater weight.—Pause not,”
he continued, observing that Fabueno hesitated: “If
thy foot be near my neck, I shall know it is not the
foot of an enemy.—I will kneel to take thee on my
back, as the Saracen camel does to his master.—
Stretch thyself to thy full height, so as to cut through
the tops of the bars; after which, without further
carving, thou canst easily wrench them from their
places.”

Fabueno submitted to the will of the novice, and
Amador rising without much effort under his weight,
he was soon in a position to operate to advantage.

“Why dost thou falter?” demanded the novice, as

Lorenzo, after making one or two gashes in the
wood, suddenly ceased his labour.

“Señor,” replied the secretary, in a low voice,
“there is a guard at a little distance, sitting under
the shadow of the pyramid. A cavalier stands in
advance, watching—It is the captain Salvatierra!”

“May heaven strike me with pains and death,”
cried Amador, with an abrupt ardour, that nearly
tumbled the secretary from his station, “if I do not
covet the blood of that false and cowardly traitor!
who, after hiding his wrath under the cloak of magnanimity
and religion, was the first to seize upon me,
and that from behind!”

“What is to be done, señor?” demanded Fabueno,
in a whisper. “He will discover me; and even if I
can remove the grating, there will be no possibility
to descend without observation.”

“Cut through the wood as silently as thou canst,”
said Amador; “and then, when the window is open,
I will myself spring to the earth, and so occupy the
dastard's notice, that thou shalt escape without peril.
Cut on, and fear not.”

The secretary obeyed, but had not yet divided a
single stake, when suddenly a noise was heard as of
the clattering of armour, as well as the voice of Salvatierra
exclaiming furiously,

“To your bows, ye vagabonds! Quick and hotly!
Drive your shafts through and through! Shoot!”—

“Descend!” said Amador.

But before the secretary could follow his counsel,
there came four cross-bow shafts rattling violently
into the window; and Fabueno, with a loud cry,
sprang, or rather fell, to the floor.

“Have the knaves struck thee?” demanded Amador,
as he raised the groaning youth in his arms.

“Ay, señor!” replied the youth, faintly, “I shall
never see the golden kings of Mexico!”

“Be of better heart,” said Amador, leading him to
where the moonlight shone brightest on the floor.

“Art thou struck in the body?—If thou diest, be certain
I will revenge thee.—Where art thou hurt?”

“I know not,” replied Lorenzo, piteously; “but I
know I shall die.—O heaven! this is a pang more
bitter than death!—Must I die?”

“Be comforted,” said the novice, cheeringly; “the
arrow has only pierced thy arm! I will snap it asunder,
and withdraw it. Fear not: there is no peril in
such hurt; and I will bear witness thou hast won it
most honourably.”

“Will I not die then?” cried Fabueno, with joy.
“Pho! it was the first time I was ever hurt, and I
judged of the wound only by the agony. Pho, indeed!
'tis but a scratch!”

“Thou bearest it valiantly,” said Amador, binding
his scarf round the wound; “and I have no doubt
thou wilt make a worthy soldier.—But what is now
to be done? If thou thinkest thou hast strength to
support me for a minute or two, I will clamber to
the window myself, and remove the bars, without
fear the arrows of these varlets can do me much
harm through my armour.”

“They are not above three-score yards distant,”
said Fabueno, “and, señor, I feel a little faint. I
know not, moreover, how I could escape, even if
your honour should be so lucky as to reach the
ground.”—

“I should not have forsaken thee, Lorenzo,” said
the cavalier, giving over, with a sigh, all hope of escape.
“There is nothing more to be done.—The foul
fiend seize the knave that struck thee, and the dastard
that commanded the shot! I would to heaven I had
beaten him soundly.—How feelest thou now? If thou
canst sleep, it will be well.”

“I have no more pain,” said the secretary, “but
feel a sort of exhaustion, which will doubtless be relieved
by rest.”

“Sleep then,” said Amador, “and have a care
that thy wounded member be not oppressed by the
weight of thy body. I will myself presently follow

thy example. If aught should occur to disturb thee,
even though it should be but the pain of thy hurt,
scruple not to arouse, me.”—

The neophyte watched till persuaded the secretary
was asleep; then devoutly repeating a prayer, he
stretched himself on his hard mat with as much tranquillity
as if reposing on a goodly bed in his own
mountain-castle, and was soon lost to his troubles.