The Car of Destiny
bathe—as Dick put it—a few carefully selected feet on his own account, as
a sign of humility. Later, would come the most splendid procession of the
week, the King walking with his own _cofradia_; in the evening, the
Miserere in the cathedral, and processions all night, till mass on Good
Friday morning. To myself I said, therefore, that I was to have two more
chances: the one for which I depended upon Pilar in the afternoon; the one
for which I depended on an inspiration of my own in the evening. For all
the world was going to hear the Miserere.
Though it was a week for penitence and fasting, Seville—honoured by the
King—thrilled with excitement. Thousands of strangers had poured into the
town for this day, and the crowds were three times as dense as on Sunday.
Though there had been disquieting rumours, whispers of anarchist plots and
bombs, the police had been alert; the King had taken a swift gunboat up
the Guadalquivir, instead of arriving by special train from Cadiz, had
reached Seville safely; and now anxiety was forgotten. All the town poured
into the Plaza de la Constitución more than an hour before there was any
hope that the procession might begin; and I was in the crowd.
The boxes filled earlier than before, many of the ladies no longer in
black, but wearing Paris hats and pale-tinted dresses, though to-morrow
there would be black mantillas again, and red carnations. Pilar, Dick, and
Colonel O’Donnel were in their places, and though the Duke’s box was still
empty, I was sure I should not be disappointed to-day. “He’ll appear about
the time the King does,” I was saying to myself, when suddenly there came
a stir in the royal box. The mayor and town councillors walked in, looking
important; four giant halberdiers of the royal guard took position, each
in a corner of the box. Then rose a shout, “Viva el Rey!” and against the
crimson velvet draperies the figure of the tall young King in white
uniform stood out like a slender statue of marble.
He was accompanied by his sister, the Infanta, and her husband, three or
four ladies, and a retinue of decorated officers; but for an instant I saw
only the King, because—rebel as I was supposed to be—my hat waved as high
and my cheers rang as loudly as any in the crowd.
I had not seen his face—that day at Biarritz long ago—when his automobile
stopped for want of petrol. He had worn his motor-mask, and had not
removed it, for he was incognito; but now, as he bowed in answer to the
people’s greeting, the young face was noble under the silver helmet. His
smile brought a deep dimple to either cheek, and a pleasant light to the
brown eyes. I was proud of my King, and found myself wishing that I could
serve him, though it seemed that that could never be; and with a sigh for
the perversities of fate I looked away, only to receive a shock of
surprise.
Among the ladies with the Infanta were the Duchess of Carmona, Lady
Vale-Avon, and Monica. With the officers and friends of the King stood the
Duke, his dark face radiating satisfaction, as if this were the crowning
moment of his life.
Not only was Monica with the man as his fiancée, but she was dressed, in
compliment to him, like a girl of Spain. She wore a mantilla such as the
Infanta wore, and so bright was her hair, so fair her skin framed in the
black flounce of lace, that she was almost as much stared at as the King.
On her breast, pinning the folds of the mantilla, there was a glint of
crimson; and looking closely, I made it out to be a large brooch of
rubies, forming the famous “No. 8 Do,” the motto of Seville. Only the Duke
could have given her this, I thought; and she had accepted it!
There was no more hope, then. It did not matter that her unexpected
presence in the royal box would prevent Pilar from speaking, or giving her
my letter. Still, I clung desperately to the one chance left; the
cathedral and the Miserere.
Hardly were the royalties and their friends settled in the red-draped box
when the next brotherhood marched out from Las Sierpes, and halted their
first _paso_ before the King, that he might see it well. He was on his
feet, his head bared and bowed; and while he stood veiled in rising
incense, some emotional soul in the audience broke into a Moorish wail,
the prayer song or _saeta_ of the people, improvising words which caught
the popular fancy.
A murmur of approval ran through the crowd, which pressed close, in spite
of the police; and as all eyes for the moment turned upon the King, or
upon the white-haired peasant singer, a thing happened which caught my
attention.
The velvet curtain which hid the bearers of the _paso_ resting before the
royal box, parted very slightly at one side, as if someone were peering
out; then a hand darted forth and received from a man in a black coat, who
stood with his back half-turned to me, a faded bouquet of flowers,
arranged Spanish fashion in a hard, stiff pyramid.
Quick as that darting hand a thought flashed through my brain. In a few
seconds the _paso_ would be moving on; the bearers were bracing themselves
for a new effort. That bouquet! if it should hold the threatened bomb?
This was the moment for such an attempt at wrecking the royal box, for the
King was a member of the next brotherhood that must pass; and soon he
would be leaving his sister and friends to walk with it, perhaps not
returning to his box that day.
The passing of light is no more swift than was the flight of these
thoughts; and without waiting to calculate the cost to myself, thinking
only of the King and of the girl I loved, I instantly thrust both hands
between the curtains, following the flowers as they were passed in. I
grasped the bouquet firmly round the stiff base of the pyramid, and pulled
it out before the hidden man who had received it knew that it had not been
withdrawn by his confederate. It was all over in a second, and I had the
bouquet. Also I had identified the man who pushed it through the curtains
of the _paso_, though which among the twenty or twenty-five concealed
bearers had taken it from him I could not tell.
Whether my act had been wise or foolish, it was done, and the _paso_ had
moved on, carrying the secret of one beating heart under the curtained
platform.
Prying cautiously among the tightly banked flowers, my blood quickened as
I touched something round and hard, a thing about the size of a large
orange, fastened into the centre of the pyramid by a network of thin wire.
Intuition had not played me a trick. There was death in this bunch of
roses, death for many, perhaps. Though it was of first importance to get
the bomb as far away as possible from the King and from Monica, and to
render it harmless, I would not give up my pursuit of the man in the black
coat, who was fighting his way through the crowd, only a few yards in
front of me,—a square-set figure, in the holiday clothes of a respectable
workman. I saw only his back now, every muscle tense in his desire to
escape the vengeance on his track; but I had seen his face for an instant,
and could identify it anywhere.
What if, in his desperation, he turned, and in the hope of saving himself
accused me of the crime he would have committed? It but needed that to
ruin me—after Barcelona, and this long journey to Seville, where the King
was due. Would any explanation I might make be credited, when the bomb was
in my hand?
I pushed the crowding thoughts out of my mind. There were other things to
think of—the bomb itself, what to do with it; and the man to be followed.
Meanwhile I was moving on after that broad back of which I must not lose
sight, and away from the neighbourhood of the royal box. I was in the lane
of the procession, close in front of the long ranks of occupied chairs,
and opposite the tribune. There were only two persons abreast in the
moving line which carried me along, driven on by the police, but we were
tightly packed, pressed against on one side by the knees of people in the
chairs, on the other by the purple brotherhood preceding another _paso_.
The situation seemed desperate, since to give an alarm would endanger the
crowd as well as jeopardize my future; and a panic would be a calamity.
Suddenly the cry of a water-seller struck my ear sharply. “Agua!—clear as
crystal and cold as mountain snow. Agua!”
He was just before me with his earthen vessel. “Sell me your jar,” I said.
“No, I don’t want a glass of water. I want the jar—for a curiosity. Twenty
pesetas for it.”
This offer saved questionings. The vessel with its contents was worth two
pesetas to the vendor, perhaps, and, lest I should change my mind, its
owner hastily handed over his jar and pocketed my silver. Even now I had
to wait for an opening in the throng, till I had been pushed on as far as
the lane leading from the square to the Plaza de San Fernando; and there,
to my joy, I jostled against Ropes. Without a word of explanation, I said,
“Follow that man in the cloth cap with the black coat and red tie. Get
hold of him; take care he doesn’t knife or shoot you. Don’t let him go—and
wait for me.”
This was all Ropes needed. “Right, sir,” said he, and forged after the
black back, which in this freer space was gaining distance.
Unexpectedly relieved of my second task, carefully shielding the bouquet
with the water-jar I worked my way into the lane, and struck the head of
the earthen vessel against a stone coping.
The porous clay cracked like an egg-shell, the top coming off in one
piece, with a few flying splinters; and I pressed the bouquet deep into
the water.
This was the best I could do at the moment, though, if the bomb was made
with picric acid, I had accomplished nothing. I could only hope; and
pressing on I came up with Ropes, who had collared his man and jammed him
against a wall.
Not a sound had the wretch uttered. He knew that, if he resisted, he would
be instantly denounced and torn to pieces by a crowd not likely to wait
for clear proof of such an accusation. Since he had failed, it was better
to trust to the mercy of his captor and of the police than to the
thousands wild with enthusiasm for the King. Fortunately for him, as for
us, the crowd had something better to do than stop to watch what they took
for some trifling private quarrel.
“He tried to knife me,” said Ropes; “but I stopped that. Knife’s in my
pocket. What next, sir?”
It was characteristic that he did not ask what the man had done.
“Give the brute up to the police,” I answered in English. “He was with
another chap whom I’ve lost, in a plot to throw a bomb at the royal box;
and the bomb’s in this water-jar.”
For the first time Ropes’ face lost its imperturbable expression. “What,
sir!” he exclaimed, “after your troubles—excuse my mentioning them—you
concern yourself in an affair like this!”
“I’ve no choice. We can’t let this beast escape. If they have him, the
police may get his mate. He looks a coward and sneak.”
“Beg pardon, sir, you have a choice. I’ve got the man. Give me the jar
with the bomb, and I’ll take the whole thing on my shoulders with the
police, though it’s a shame you should lose the credit. I’ve a clean bill;
chauffeur to Mr. R. Waring, American newspaper correspondent. No need to
bring you into it.”
“If you’re blown up by the bomb—”
“Would get blown up just the same sticking to you, for I _would_ stick
like a burr, sir. (Now, no good wriggling, you beast, or gabbling about a
mistake. There’s no mistake, and you won’t get away!) Better tell him
what’s in that jar, sir—my Spanish doesn’t run as far—and that’ll quiet
him.”
“You can’t manage the man and the jar.”
“Could manage two of each. There’s a couple of civil guards. Now, if
you’ve any kindness for me, sir, let go that jar; and don’t be seen with
me.”