Patiently and softly went the oxen about the little pottage garden of the friars, till, where the soil was sandiest and the ground most open, under a south-looking wall on which the roses were still clustering (for they grow roses late at La Granja), lo! a trench was dug.  It was not so deep as a rich man’s grave in other countries, but in Spain as elsewhere a little earth covers a multitude of sorrows.

The long shallow trench had been the last work of the two remaining monks ere they departed to their duty in the stricken village.  Savage men, heathen of heart and cruel of hand, might await them there.  Black plague would certainly lurk in every doorway.  Yet these two brothers, simple in the greatness of their faith-not of the wise of the land, not of the apparent salt of the earth, but only plain devout men, ignorant of all beyond their breviaries and their duty to their fellows-had gone forth as quietly and unostentatiously as a labouring man shoulders his mattock and trudges to his daily toil.

Of the three that remained, Brother Teodoro did his best; but in spite of his endeavours the bulk of the work fell to Rollo and Concha.  Yet under the page’s dress and the rude outer slough of tarred canvas the girl’s heart sang.  There was nothing terrible in death when he and she together lifted the spent stuff of mortality and laid it in its last resting-place.  Without a shudder she replaced a fallen face-cloth.  With Rollo opposite to her she took the feet of the dead that had guarded them so well in the red morning light, and when all were laid a-row in the rest which lasts till the Judgment Day, and before the first spadeful of earth had fallen, Concha, with a sudden impulse, took a kerchief from her neck, and plucked a double handful of the roses that clustered along the wall.  They were white roses, small, but of a sweet perfume, having grown in that high mountain air.  Then without a word, and while the monk was still busy with his prayers for the dead, she sprang down to where at the corner opposite to Brother Domingo the daughter of Munoz had been laid, the pinched fierceness of her countenance relaxed into a strange far-away smile.

Concha spread the kerchief tenderly over the face of the girl, dropping tears the while.  And she crossed the little hands which pain and madness had driven to deeds of darkness and blood, upon the breast in which the angry young heart had beaten so hotly, and scattered the white roses over all.

Then while the Basque Teodoro did his office over his dead brother, Concha kneeled at the foot of the trench, a little crucifix in her hand.  Her lips moved as she held the rude image of the Crucified over that fierce little head and sorely tortured body.  He who had cast out so many devils, would surely pardon and understand.  So at least she thought.  Rollo watched her, and though brought up to be a good Presbyterian by his father, he knew that this little foolish Concha must yet teach him how to pray.

“God may hear her before the other, who knows!” he murmured.  “One is a man praying for men-she, a maiden praying for a maid!”

Then Rollo made the girl, whom the scene had somewhat overwrought, go off to a secluded part of the garden and wash in the clean cool water of a fountain, while he remained to shovel in the soil and pack it well down upon the bodies of the dead who had served his purpose so faithfully.  Last of all he unyoked and fed the oxen, leaving them solemnly munching their fodder, blinking their meek eyes and ruminating upon the eternal sameness of things in their serene bovine world.  He came out, stripped himself to the skin, and washed in one of the deserted kitchens from which Brother Domingo, sometime almoner and cook to the Ermita of San Ildefonso, had for ever departed.

This being completed to his satisfaction, he went out to find Concha, who, her face radiant with the water of the Guadarrama (and other things which the young morning had brought her), met him as he came to her through the wood.

She held up her face to be kissed as simply and naturally as a child.  Death was all about them, but of a truth these two lived.  Yea, and though they should die ere nightfall, still throughout the eternities they might comfort themselves, in whatsoever glades of whatsoever afterworlds they might wander, that on earth they had lived, and not in vain.

For if it be true that God is Love, equally true is it that love is life.  And this is the secret of all things new and old, of Adam and Eva his wife, of Alpha and Omega, of the mystic OM, of the joined serpent, of the Somewhat which links us to the Someone.

It was now Rollo’s chiefest desire to get back to the palace and find out what had happened there during his absence.  He had heard the rattle of musketry fire again and again during the night, and he feared, as much from the ensuing silence as from the escape of the daughter of Munoz, that some disaster must have occurred there.  He would have started at once to reconnoitre, but Brother Teodoro, hearing of his intention, volunteered to find out whether the gipsies had wholly evacuated the neighbourhood.

There was a private path from the grounds of the Hermitage which led into those of the palace.  By this the Basque hastened off, and it was no long time before he returned, carrying the news that not only was the town clear and the gardens of the palace free from marauders, but that Rollo’s people were still in full possession of La Granja.  He had even been able to speak with one of the royal servants for an instant, a man with whom he had some acquaintance.  But this conference, the Basque added, had been hastily interrupted by a certain old woman of a fierce aspect, who had ordered the young man off.  Nevertheless he had gained enough information to assure him that there would now be no danger in the whole party returning openly to the Palace of La Granja.

Accordingly Rollo set out, with Concha still wrapt in the cloak which covered her page’s dress.  Rollo would gladly have carried the little Princess, but Isabel had taken so overwhelming a fancy to Concha that she could not be induced to quit her side for a moment.  Indeed, she declared her intention of leaving her mother and Dona Susana and returning to Aranjuez with Concha so soon as her message should be delivered.

Rollo whispered that the pretended page should not discourage this sudden devotion, since in the journey that still lay before them the willingness of the little Princess to accompany them might make all the difference between success and failure.

The Sergeant received them at the garden door, which he had so carefully watched all night.  There was a kindlier look than usual upon his leathern and saturnine features.

“I judge, Senor,” he said, as he saluted Rollo, “that you have more to tell me than I have to tell you.”

“In any case, let me hear your story first,” said Rollo; “mine can keep!”

“In brief, then, having your authority,” began the Sergeant, “I permitted his Excellency the Duke of Rianzares to have an interview with his daughter, at which, for safety’s sake, I was present, and gained a great deal of information that may be exceedingly useful to us in the future.  But in one thing I confess that I was not sufficiently careful.  The girl, being left to herself for a moment, escaped-by what means I know not.  Nor” (this with a quaint glance at Concha) “was she the only lady who left the palace that night without asking my leave!”

But without answering, the cloaked page passed him rapidly, and with the Princess still clinging to her hand, she passed upstairs.  The Sergeant looked after her and her young charge.

“You are sure of this lady’s discretion?” he said.

“I have proved it to the death,” answered the young man briefly and a little haughtily.

The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders as if he would have said with the Basque friar, “It is none of my business.”  But instead he took up his report to his superior and continued, “We buried the body of the poor woman Dona Susana within the precincts of the Colegiata -

“And an hour ago I buried the body of her slayer,” said Rollo, calmly.

For an instant the Sergeant looked astonished, as indeed well he might, but he restrained whatever curiosity he felt, and only said: 

“You will let me hear what happened in your own time, and also how you discovered and regained the little Princess?”

Rollo nodded.

“And speaking of the Princess, if she asks questions,” continued Cardono, “had she not better be told that Dona Susana has gone to visit her relations-which, as she was the last of her family, is, I believe, strictly true!”

“But the Queen-Regent and the Duke-Senor Munoz, I mean?” queried Rollo.  “What of them?” For the young man had even yet no high opinion of that nobleman or of his vocation in life.

“Oh, as to the Duke,” answered the Sergeant, “I do not think that we shall have much trouble with him.  The Queen is our Badajoz.  She is so set on returning to Madrid that she will not move a step towards Aragon, and we have not enough force to carry her thither against her will with any possibility of secrecy.”

“We might take the little Princess alone,” mused Rollo; “she would go with Concha anywhere.  Of that I am certain.”

The Sergeant shook his head.

“The Queen-Regent, and she alone, is the fountain of authority.  If you kidnap and sequester her within the Carlist lines, you will certainly paralyse the government of Madrid.  Especially you may prevent the sweeping away of the monasteries-which, I take it, is at the bottom of all this pother, though for the life of me I cannot see what concern the matter is of yours.  But to carry off the Princess would profit you nothing.  Isabel Segunda is but a child, and will not come of age for many years.  Your friend the Abbot would gain nothing by her captivity.  But the Queen-Regent were a prize indeed!”

After he had spoken thus freely, Rollo continued to muse, and the Sergeant to watch him.  The latter had a great opinion of this young man’s practical ability.

“If he had had but the fortune to be born poor-and in Andalucia, he might have been one day as great as I!” was the opinion of this modest Sergeant.  And indeed he spoke but the words of truth and soberness.  For it was the opinion of nine out of ten of his countrymen that he, Jose Maria of Ronda, was the greatest man of all time.

“Well,” said Rollo at last, “let us go up and talk a little to my friends and El Sarria.  I think I see a way of inducing her Royal Highness to accompany us.  But it will require some firmness, and even a certain amount of severity.”

The Sergeant nodded with grim appreciation.

“It is a pity with women,” he said philosophically, “but sometimes, I know, it is the only way.”

“The severity I speak of,” continued Rollo, not regarding his words, “will mostly fall to the lot of the Senor Munoz.  But we may chance to work on the lady’s feelings through him.”

The Sergeant gave Rollo a quick glance, in which was discernible a certain alertness of joy.  The Sergeant also did not love his grandeeship, the Duke of Rianzares.

So these two went abreast up the great staircase, and found the Princess Isabel already playing joyously with Etienne, John Mortimer joining clumsily in as best he could.  Concha had vanished, and La Giralda was nowhere to be seen.

“The rogue is in no haste to visit her mother after her night adventure!” said the Sergeant in a low tone, as Rollo and he stood watching the scene from the doorway.

“Nor I,” admitted Rollo with a smile, “yet see the lady we must!”

“And shall!” said the Sergeant.

Yet in spite of the unpleasant interview which lay before him, Rollo could not help smiling at the game that was going forward in the upper hall.

    “Sur lé pont d’ Avignon,
    Tout lé monde y passe,”

chanted Etienne.

“Tout lé monde y passe!” chorused the little Princess, holding out her hands.

John Mortimer made a confused noise in his throat and presently was compelled to join the circle and dance slowly round, his countenance meantime suggestive of the mental reserve that such undignified proceedings could only be excused as being remotely connected with the safe shipment of a hundred hogsheads of Priorato.

    “The children walk like this,
    And the ladies walk like that-”

There was no help for it.  Etienne and the Princess first mimicked the careless trip of the children, and then, with chin in the air and lift of imaginary furbelow, the haughty tread of the good dames of Avignon as they took their way homeward over that ancient bridge.

But suddenly arrested with both hands in the air and his mouth open, John Mortimer looked on in confusion and a kind of mental stupor.  He was glad that no one of his nation was present to see him making a fool of himself.  The next moment Isabel had seized his hand, and he found himself again whirling lumpishly round to the ancient refrain:-

    “Sur lé pont d’ Avignon,
    Tout lé monde y passe!”

The little Queen’s merry laugh rang out at his awkwardness, and then seeing Rollo she ran impetuously to him.

“Come you and play,” she cried, “the red foreigner plays like a wooden puppet.  And where is that darling little page-boy from Aranjuez?”

“That I cannot tell,” quoth Rollo, smiling, “but here comes his sister!”

A moment after Concha entered the room talking confidentially to La Giralda.  She was now dressed in her own girlish costume of belted blouse, black basquiña pleated small after the Andalucian manner, and the quaint and pretty rebozo thrown coquettishly back from the finest and most bewitching hair in Spain.

The little Isabel went up to Concha, took her by the hand, perused her from head to foot, and then remarked with deep feeling-

“You are very well, Senorita, but-I liked your brother better!”