Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 5).djvu/305

mustered to put them to flight. It was a morning, early in September, just after the sun had peered above the horizon. A fine rain had fallen during the night, and the drops which rested on the foliage sparkled like myriads of diamonds. The streets were as yet deserted; some muleteers alone passed along them at intervals. Don Pedro's house was the only one astir.

Don Stephano, according to his custom, had risen with the dawn, and was now alone in the lower hall, standing opposite the window which overlooked the high road. He was occupied in fixing an iron lance upon a wooden rod, at which he gazed abstractedly.

The sound of a voice filling the air with song attracted his attention; it was singing the Moorish romance of "Adlemar and Adalifa," and to the quick perception of a Spanish ear was marked with a slight Ultramontaine accent, which Stephano discerned like a true Castilian. Without moving he listened to the song which awoke the echoes of the valley. The amorous words recalled to Stephano's mind the thought of Rosita, and he sighed deeply. Then he listened anew to the voice, which grew nearer and nearer, and in which, in spite of its strange accent, he seemed to hear an understrain of singular emotion. His conjectures were not long, however. A man enveloped in a large mantle peered in at the open window, and after throwing a rapid glance behind him leapt into the room. Stephano recoiled at the sight of such a strange visitor, and felt tempted to seize the man, whom he took at first for a robber. Then a troop of horsemen dashed past the house. The stranger gave a sigh of relief. Then for the first time he caught sight of Stephano.

"The stranger."

"I must be careful," the soldier muttered, as he drew his cloak more carefully round him. "This Spaniard does not look over benevolent."

"Who can this man be?" thought Stephano, as he instinctively put his hand on his pistols; but on seeing the stranger advance towards him with a pleasant smile, he paused.

"Noble Castilian," said the stranger, "are you a man to oblige an enemy in peril, and who for a quarter of an hour wishes you no more harm than if you were his brother?"

Before replying, Stephano scrutinized his questioner. He saw before him a man of about twenty-eight, with a frank face and light hair and moustache. His accent, and the blue pantaloons which appeared under the brown mantle, proclaimed him Frenchman.

"No unarmed man is my enemy," replied Stephano, "and from the moment my roof was over your head you became my guest."

"Shake hands on it! You are a fine fellow," cried the soldier, holding out his hand. At the same time he drew aside his mantle, and Stephano recognised the uniform worn by the French volunteers of Don Carlos's army. "Now, if you have a drop of anything to drink handy, I will tell you in a few words what has brought me here."

Stephano opened the sideboard, and brought out a bottle and glasses. The soldier wiped his moustache as he began.

"You see before you," he said, with frank abruptness, "Charles Dulaurier, a soldier by birth and profession, lieutenant in the Grenadiers of His Majesty Charles V.———