The Valiant Runaways [49]
he'll come on that big
brown horse of his. You sleep first, for two hours, and I'll watch--"
"You first, my friend--" Suppressing a mighty yawn.
"It is easier for me to keep awake. Lie down on that horrible bed. I do
not so much mind waiting a little longer."
Adan lifted his nose at the bunk covered with a bearskin, then flung
himself upon it, and was asleep in three minutes. Roldan sat with his
eyes applied to a rift between the hide-door and the wall. It commanded
a view of the opposite wall of the canon, over which wound a zig-zag
horse trail.
The sun, which had hung directly above the canon when Hill and Rafael
departed, had slid toward the west, leaving the canon cold and dark
again, and Roldan was about to call Adan, when he sprang to his feet,
and stood rigid, cold with fear.
On the brow of the wall opposite, three hundred feet above his head,
stood a powerful brown horse. On him was a huge figure clad in a brown
cassock, the hood drawn well over the face. It was impossible to
distinguish features at that distance, but Roldan fancied that those
terrible eyes were holding his own. He recovered himself and dragged
Adan out of bed.
"The priest!" he said. "Help me to wash these dishes--quick. It will
take him some time to get down."
Adan stumbled across the room, plunged the dishes into a pail of
drinking water, then handed them to Roldan, who dried them hastily and
piled them on the shelf. Then he flung the water across the clay floor
of the hut.
"Get up the ladder," he commanded. Adan scrambled up. Roldan followed,
and pulled the ladder after him. The garret was very low, and half full
of skins. They could not stand upright. It was also bitterly cold. Each
hastily wrapped a skin about his body, and lay full length, Roldan on
his face, his eyes applied to a chink in the rough floor.
A few moments later the door was flung aside and the priest strode in.
Roldan shuddered, but not with personal fear. The priest looked like a
man who had just left the rack of his native Spain. His hair--the hood
had fallen back--stood on end, his face and tightened lips were livid,
his eyes rolled wildly.
"Jim!" he said hoarsely. "Jim!"
He left the hut as abruptly as he had entered it.
"He has gone to look at the mouth of the tunnel," whispered Roldan.
"What fools we were not to cover it up again. Then he would have walked
its length to find us, and the horses might have come before he
returned. Well, he cannot get us until he pulls the roof down."
"He could do it," whispered Adan, grimly. "Those hands! Dios de mi
alma!"
"He will think we have gone somewhere with Don Jim."
The priest returned in less than half an hour. His face, if anything,
was still more terrible to look upon. There was a touch of foam on his
lips. His great hands were clinched. He strode over to the bunk and
lifted the heaped-up bearskin. Suddenly he pressed his face into the
fur.
"Perfume--Dona Martina's," he exclaimed. "They have been here."
He raised his face to the ceiling, and the boys held their mouths open
that their teeth might not clack together. They closed their eyes:
instinct bade them give heed to visual magnetism. Roldan immediately
wanted to cough, Adan to scratch his nose. The next few moments were the
most agonised of their lives. They felt the priest lift his hands and
pass them slowly along the ceiling, they felt those eyes searching every
crevice. Then they felt him grip the edge of the aperture and lift
himself until his eyes were above the garret floor. But it was pitch
dark. He could not even see the ladder, much less the boys under the
bear skins.
The priest dropped to the floor and seated himself upon a box, dropping
his face into his hands. There he sat, motionless, for hours. The boys
buried their heads in the skins and went to sleep.
They were awakened by the sound of voices. A candle flared below. Hill
had entered. He and the priest were alone.
"They were here, sir, that's true enough. I've just taken them to the
Sennor Carriller's
brown horse of his. You sleep first, for two hours, and I'll watch--"
"You first, my friend--" Suppressing a mighty yawn.
"It is easier for me to keep awake. Lie down on that horrible bed. I do
not so much mind waiting a little longer."
Adan lifted his nose at the bunk covered with a bearskin, then flung
himself upon it, and was asleep in three minutes. Roldan sat with his
eyes applied to a rift between the hide-door and the wall. It commanded
a view of the opposite wall of the canon, over which wound a zig-zag
horse trail.
The sun, which had hung directly above the canon when Hill and Rafael
departed, had slid toward the west, leaving the canon cold and dark
again, and Roldan was about to call Adan, when he sprang to his feet,
and stood rigid, cold with fear.
On the brow of the wall opposite, three hundred feet above his head,
stood a powerful brown horse. On him was a huge figure clad in a brown
cassock, the hood drawn well over the face. It was impossible to
distinguish features at that distance, but Roldan fancied that those
terrible eyes were holding his own. He recovered himself and dragged
Adan out of bed.
"The priest!" he said. "Help me to wash these dishes--quick. It will
take him some time to get down."
Adan stumbled across the room, plunged the dishes into a pail of
drinking water, then handed them to Roldan, who dried them hastily and
piled them on the shelf. Then he flung the water across the clay floor
of the hut.
"Get up the ladder," he commanded. Adan scrambled up. Roldan followed,
and pulled the ladder after him. The garret was very low, and half full
of skins. They could not stand upright. It was also bitterly cold. Each
hastily wrapped a skin about his body, and lay full length, Roldan on
his face, his eyes applied to a chink in the rough floor.
A few moments later the door was flung aside and the priest strode in.
Roldan shuddered, but not with personal fear. The priest looked like a
man who had just left the rack of his native Spain. His hair--the hood
had fallen back--stood on end, his face and tightened lips were livid,
his eyes rolled wildly.
"Jim!" he said hoarsely. "Jim!"
He left the hut as abruptly as he had entered it.
"He has gone to look at the mouth of the tunnel," whispered Roldan.
"What fools we were not to cover it up again. Then he would have walked
its length to find us, and the horses might have come before he
returned. Well, he cannot get us until he pulls the roof down."
"He could do it," whispered Adan, grimly. "Those hands! Dios de mi
alma!"
"He will think we have gone somewhere with Don Jim."
The priest returned in less than half an hour. His face, if anything,
was still more terrible to look upon. There was a touch of foam on his
lips. His great hands were clinched. He strode over to the bunk and
lifted the heaped-up bearskin. Suddenly he pressed his face into the
fur.
"Perfume--Dona Martina's," he exclaimed. "They have been here."
He raised his face to the ceiling, and the boys held their mouths open
that their teeth might not clack together. They closed their eyes:
instinct bade them give heed to visual magnetism. Roldan immediately
wanted to cough, Adan to scratch his nose. The next few moments were the
most agonised of their lives. They felt the priest lift his hands and
pass them slowly along the ceiling, they felt those eyes searching every
crevice. Then they felt him grip the edge of the aperture and lift
himself until his eyes were above the garret floor. But it was pitch
dark. He could not even see the ladder, much less the boys under the
bear skins.
The priest dropped to the floor and seated himself upon a box, dropping
his face into his hands. There he sat, motionless, for hours. The boys
buried their heads in the skins and went to sleep.
They were awakened by the sound of voices. A candle flared below. Hill
had entered. He and the priest were alone.
"They were here, sir, that's true enough. I've just taken them to the
Sennor Carriller's