Chapter 17

KIDNAPPED

A priest was sitting at a table in a second-class caf� when a gentleman entered and came up to the table.

"Good-morning, count!" the priest said. "I received your note asking me to meet you at this place, and here I am."

"Thanks, father!" the other said, as he took a seat beside him and ordered coffee. He waited till it was brought, and then went on: "I wanted to see you about a rather delicate matter that concerns you, and, I may say, the Church."

The priest looked surprised.

"You are, I know," the count went on, "the spiritual adviser of Count Leon de Balen and his family."

"I can hardly say of the count," the priest said with a smile, "for, like too many young noblemen of his age, he does not trouble me with his confessions; but of the ladies, yes."

"May I ask if Donna Mercedes comes very often to confession?"

"Well, my son, unless you ask for some very particular reason, that is a question I should not care to answer."

There was a ring of dissatisfaction in the priest's answer that the count was not slow to notice.

"I have a reason for asking," he said. "You know, father, that I was at one time, I will not say actually betrothed, but very nearly so, to Donna Mercedes. She broke off the affair under the plea that she had made up her mind to remain single and to devote herself to good works."

"So she told me," the priest said, "and I highly approved of her determination."

"May I ask, father, if she has repeated that statement to you of late?"

"She has not come to me frequently of late," the priest said in a tone that showed it was a sore point with him.

"I thought so," the count went on. "Well, father, you can hardly help noticing that for some time past a young English adventurer has been frequently at the house."

The priest nodded.

"He is a friend of her brother's. It is a matter that I have regretted, as I have considered that so close an intimacy with a heretic is not seemly; but this cannot affect Donna Mercedes."

"I should say, father, that it does, very seriously. I have information of what takes place in the house, and I can assure you that if not already engaged, it is certain that Donna Mercedes will be betrothed to this adventurer before long."

The priest uttered an angry exclamation.

"It would be a grave scandal, a terrible scandal," he said, "for the daughter of a noble house to be betrothed to a heretic!"

"And a serious loss to the Church too," the count said smoothly. "If this marriage could be prevented, doubtless she would revert to her previous intention of entering a convent; and I need hardly say that she is an heiress, and that her revenues would be better employed in the Church than by this young heretic."

The priest nodded. The fact was too evident to need argument.

"I have done my best to prevent it," the count went on, "by challenging this young upstart to a duel; but, as you may perhaps have heard, he proved himself the better swordsman. I have, therefore, resolved to lay the matter frankly before you, in order that you may, if you choose, put a stop to what, as you say, would be a grievous scandal."

"I do not see how I could do so," the priest said gloomily. "It would be useless for me to speak to her brother, who is most to blame, for he should not have permitted so close an intimacy to arise. Nor do I think that I should succeed with Donna Mercedes herself. She is, I regret to say, of a somewhat headstrong disposition. I have more than once spoken to her about this strange intimacy between her brother and a gentleman who is at once a foreigner and a heretic, but she has always replied that it was a matter on which I should speak to her brother and not to her, as it was he who had brought him to the house. And once when I tried to press the matter she said, in a tone that was not altogether seemly, that he had saved her life, as of course I had heard--though, for my part, I doubt whether Cabrera would have carried his threat into execution--and that she certainly would not take any step to induce her brother to close his doors to his visits."

"No, father, I did not think for a moment that any persuasions would turn this unhappy girl from the course on which she seems to be bent."

"What, then, do you propose? I am willing to take any steps that would put a stop to this deplorable state of things."

"Well, father, you know that, although some laxity has been shown of late years, the laws against infidelity to the Church are still in force."

"That is so," he said. "But this young man is, it appears, an agent of his government; and though we could assuredly use these laws against a native, we could scarcely put them in force against a commissioner of a friendly country."

"That I foresaw," the count said; "but what cannot be done openly can be done privately. There can be little doubt that if this young adventurer were shut up in a cell in a monastery for a few years, Donna Mercedes, when all trace of him was lost, would revert to her original intention and enter a convent, in which case her property would go to the Church."

The priest was silent for some time.

"It is a daring plan," he said, "one of which I certainly could not approve did I see any other way of saving this unfortunate girl from eternal perdition, which would doubtless befall her. Were she to marry this English stranger, no doubt she would in time adopt his religion. I must think it over. It would be a grave step to take, and if it were to be discovered it might cause a serious scandal; at the same time something might be risked for the sake of this young lady's eternal welfare."

"I do not think that the risk would be worth taking into consideration," the count said. "There must be plenty of cells in your monasteries where he could be confined without the smallest fear of discovery. He would, of course, be well treated; and after Donna Mercedes had taken the veil he might even be released on taking an oath never to divulge where he had been, or to make any complaint as to his treatment. He would, doubtless, be glad enough to regain his liberty on those terms.

"When he disappeared, suspicion would naturally fall upon me, for it is well known that I have great cause of complaint against him. People would say that I had had him quietly removed--a grievous suspicion to have to bear; but I would do so cheerfully in order to save Donna Mercedes from this young adventurer, whom her brother has so foolishly and incautiously allowed to lead her away. I have no doubt that I shall be watched for a long time; but assuredly no suspicion whatever could fall upon the Church of having come to the lady's rescue."

"Certainly her marriage to this heretic would be a terrible scandal," the priest said, "and one to be avoided by every possible means. Well, my son, I will think it over, and will lay the matter before higher authorities. Will you meet me here again in a few days' time, when I shall probably be able to give you an answer?"

"Good, father! I feel at any rate that I have only done my duty in endeavouring to save this young lady, whom I sincerely esteem and respect, although there are no longer any relations between us. It appeared to me that it was a matter in which the Church should interfere; and having now laid it before you, I feel that my conscience is relieved, and that I have no further interest in the matter."

"I see, my son, that your opinion is an entirely disinterested one, and that you are acting simply in the interest of this young lady and of the Holy Church."

The count and the priest met again two days later.

"My son, the matter has been decided upon. I have laid it before my bishop, and he agrees with me that it is incumbent on the Church to take every means to prevent this young lady from going to eternal perdition. The monastery in which this young man shall be confined has been settled upon. Perhaps you can tell us the best way in which he can be secured, for he is assuredly a man of exceptional strength and not likely to suffer himself to be carried away without a severe struggle."

"That is so, father. The matter is not without difficulty," the count said. "After nightfall he never goes out without being attended by a pestilent knave, his servant, and the two could not be overcome without a veritable battle. He must, therefore, be taken in the daytime. If you like, father, I will undertake that part of the business, although it is not to be done without some difficulty and danger. He must be enticed by a fictitious message to some quiet house. Here six men will be waiting for him, and as soon as he enters they will fling themselves upon him and overpower him. They will then bind him, and leave him; then, when it is dark, either a carriage, or a stretcher carried by four lay brothers of the monastery, can come for him and carry him off, it makes but little difference to me whither, and I would rather not know, so that I may be able to swear that I have not seen him since the day we met, and that I am wholly ignorant of his whereabouts. If you will be here every day at this hour, I will come and tell you when the bird is caged."

"So be it, my son, and indeed we shall all feel grateful to you for the service you will have rendered the Church."

The next morning Arthur received the following letter:--

"Se�or Hallett, the writer of this letter has become aware of a plot against you and a certain young lady in whom you have a great interest. If you will call on him at twelve o'clock, he will be awaiting you on the second �tage of the Number 2 Strada de Barcelona, the first door to the right. He prays you to be silent as to this rendezvous, as his life would be forfeited were it known that he had made this communication to you."

The street was a central one and largely frequented, so no thought entered Arthur's mind that there could be any danger in attending at the rendezvous; and accordingly at a quarter to twelve he left his house, carrying, however, a brace of pistols in his pocket. On arriving at the place indicated, he passed through the open doorway and ascended the stairs to the second floor, then he rang the bell of the door to the right. It was opened by a little old woman.

"Come in, se�or," she said; "you are expected."

He entered; she closed the door behind him, and led the way to an inner room. He was about to go in, when there was a rush of footsteps behind him, and four men flung themselves suddenly on to his back, the weight and impetus of the charge throwing him forward on to his face. Before he could recover from his surprise and attempt to struggle, a rope was thrown over his head, pulled down to his elbows, and then tightened, and in a minute he was bound and helpless. He was carried into the room and the knots more securely fastened, his wrists being bound tightly behind his back, and his ankles lashed together. Then two of the men left the room, and the others remained sitting with their knives in their hands.

Arthur cursed his own folly in not having let Roper know where he was going; and yet, as he told himself, it was but natural that, having been informed that the plot affected Mercedes, he should have kept the matter to himself. That he had fallen into the power of Count Silvio he did not doubt for a moment; and yet he thought that, unscrupulous and revengeful as he might be, he would hardly venture to put him to death. Every moment he expected him to appear, but the hours went slowly by. He had been gagged as soon as he was bound, and no effort he had made had sufficed to get the gag from his mouth. From time to time he heard footsteps as people went up and down to the floor above, and if he could have freed his mouth he would have shouted, in spite of the knives with which his guards menaced him. At length the light faded and the room presently became dark.

Half an hour after night had fallen he heard a ring at the bell. One of the guards answered it, and four figures in monks' clothes and with hoods over their heads entered. They brought a stretcher and laid it down beside Arthur, lifted him upon it, and fastened a strap across his shoulders and another across his legs; then they lifted the stretcher and bore him away. He was greatly puzzled by the proceedings. These might be men employed by the count and disguised as monks--he could hardly believe that they were really monks. He was carried for a long time, but as a cloth had been thrown over him, he could form no idea whatever as to the direction in which his bearers were proceeding. When they stopped and knocked at a door, however, he calculated that the journey had occupied at least three hours. They might therefore have come miles from the city, but on the other hand they might have wound about, and so might not be a hundred yards from the place where he was captured. A door opened, and after a pause they moved on again. Then Arthur felt that they were descending some stairs. When they reached the bottom they turned into another door, lowered the stretcher to the ground, and took off the cloth. The ropes that bound Arthur were loosed, a lantern was placed on the floor, and without a word the whole party of monks left the cell and locked the door behind.

Arthur got up at once, picked up the lantern, and examined his prison. It was a cell some ten feet square. At one side was a stone pallet, on which some straw had been thrown, otherwise the floor was perfectly bare. The only window was an opening near the ceiling about a foot long and six inches wide, with two strong bars across it.

"Well," he said to himself, "this certainly looks like a monk's cell, or rather the prison cell of a monastery, and it appears as if I had not fallen into the hands of the count after all. Things are bad enough in all conscience, but even to be in the grip of the Inquisition, which does not, so far as I know, exist now, would be better than to be in the hands of such a scoundrel. Still, it is strange that the Church should have interfered with me. I know how bigoted the clergy are, and how unscrupulous, but I should not have thought that they would have dared to meddle with a British officer. However, I can hardly believe that they will attempt my life; I don't see what good it could do them. I would give a good deal to know what their game is. Well, I suppose it is useless to bother about it at present. I am so stiff both in the wrists and ankles that I can scarcely stand. At any rate, it is civil of them to leave me a light."

In a quarter of an hour the door opened again, and two monks came in. They put a large jug of water and a dish of fried beans on the floor, and retired without speaking.

"Let me think," Arthur said to himself. "This is Friday, so I suppose it is fast day. I hope this is not a sample of their ordinary fare. However, as I have had nothing since breakfast, it is not to be despised."

He ate a hearty meal, and then lay down on the stone bench, and was soon asleep. When he awoke, daylight was shining through the little window, and he got up and looked round again. Certainly the prospect was not a cheering one; the walls were perfectly bare, and broken only by the door and the window. As the cell was twelve feet high, the window was altogether beyond his reach. He would have given a good deal to be able to look out and see whether he was in a town or in the country, and whether or not the window opened into a courtyard. This question was, however, presently settled by the sound of the rumble of distant vehicles. At long intervals one passed the window, and occasionally a foot-passenger went by. Arthur therefore concluded that he was in a town, and was equally certain that the window looked into a quiet and little-frequented street, and was probably level with the pavement. This, however, gave him but little clue to the position of the monastery, for there were, he knew, at least a dozen such buildings in the town. Still, it was something to know that he was within reach of human beings.

By standing against the opposite wall he could now obtain a glimpse through the window. He saw that the wall of the building must be at least two feet thick. Having made what observations he could, he sat down on his bed and waited for what should come next. Presently his breakfast was brought in; it consisted of bread, some fried meat, and, to his satisfaction, some coffee. An hour later the door opened again, and a tall man with a harsh ascetic face entered.

"You perhaps wonder why you are confined here," he said. "I have come to tell you. You are an obstacle to the designs of the Church. You have seduced the affections of one of her daughters, and in order that she may be saved from perdition, which would be her doom if she were to many a heretic, it has been thought necessary to seclude you here. Doubtless, in time she will recover from the glamour that you have thrown over her, and will deeply regret her passing aberration; will again become an obedient daughter of the Church, and perhaps find a happy refuge in its cloisters. When this takes place you will be released, but not until then. We do not desire to be harsh with you; you may be supplied with books and other indulgences, but a prisoner you will remain until she enters the walls of a cloister."

"I understand, se�or," Arthur said quietly; "and perceive that it is the lady's revenues, and not her soul, which are the main object of your care. Well, se�or, you have made me a prisoner, but I have sufficient faith in the young lady's affection to believe that until she is absolutely convinced of my death she will not turn her thoughts towards the cloister, and that therefore you are likely to have me on your hands for a very considerable time. At least, I am grateful to you for your offer of books, and shall be glad if you will furnish me with a selection."

"I may say further," the man said, "that you will be instructed in the tenets of our religion, and that should you see the error of your ways and ask to be received into the bosom of the Church, possibly all further objection to your union with the young lady in question may be removed."

Arthur laughed. "Your opinion of my principles must be a very low one if you can suppose that I shall be tempted to abandon them even with such a bait as you have been good enough to hold out."

"Naturally that is your opinion at present," the monk said coldly; "it may alter after a few months of confinement."

"I fancy not, se�or; and I warn you that no more serious offence can be committed than the capture and imprisonment of an officer in the British service."

"I am prepared to take that risk, se�or, and you are not likely to be released, whatever happens, until matters are arranged. I will now leave you to yourself."

When the door had opened Arthur observed that a number of monks were grouped in the passage outside, evidently prepared to fall upon him should he offer any violence to their prior, or attempt to make his escape.

When the prior had left, Arthur sat down and thought the matter over. The look-out was certainly not bright. He saw that he had very little chance of making his escape from the monastery. It was no doubt a large building, with any number of passages and corridors, in which, if he could escape from the cell, he would simply be lost, so that long before he could find his way to the gate, he would be overtaken and captured again. One thing, however, he might do. No doubt for a short time the two monks who brought him provisions would be accompanied by others, but when they found that he showed no signs of trying to effect his escape, they would become less vigilant. In that case he might possibly overcome these two men, make his escape to the story above, and drop out a note from the window which might be taken to Leon, who would assuredly obtain his release without delay. He could tear a blank page out of one of the books with which he was to be provided, and write a message upon it. His pencil had not been taken from him, nor his pocket-knife.

The days went on. He had no reason to complain of his treatment; the food was good and wholesome; the monks who attended to him brought a can of water daily, carried away his basin and emptied it, and swept out his cell. A mattress and blankets had been substituted for the straw, a supply of such books as he asked for had been brought to him, and it was evident that his captors desired that he should have nothing to complain of save his loss of liberty.

After ten days he resolved to carry his plan into execution. Tearing out a blank leaf carefully, he wrote upon it:

"I am confined in a monastery. I can give no information as to its position save that it is in the town. Apply to regent for an order to search."

He then signed his name, folded up the slip of paper, and on the outside wrote:

"One hundred dollars will be paid by the Count Leon de Balen to anyone who will bring this note to him."

He then waited for a favourable opportunity.

He had, one day when meat was served to him, abstracted the knife and hidden it in his stocking. The monks, when they removed the tray, did not notice that anything was missing, but he observed that on the following day they carefully felt the mattress. By this he guessed that the loss of the knife had not been discovered till that morning. The monks, fearing that they would be blamed for carelessness, had very likely protested that they had brought it as usual into the kitchen with the tray; and had only for their own satisfaction looked to see if it were hidden there. Arthur had taken it without any definite view of using it; but he thought that if this attempt to obtain succour failed, it might come in useful in any future plan he might devise.

Next day, when his attendant monks were bending to place his basin and tray on the floor, he suddenly rushed at them and hurled them both to the ground. Then he hurried out of the cell.

Four monks were standing in the passage. Running at full speed he dashed at them. Two of them were levelled to the ground; he cast the other two aside, and ran on. At the end of the passage was a staircase. Up this he darted, and found himself in a corridor similar to that below. A number of doors opened from it. He turned the handle of one of these, ran across the room to the window, pushed his hands through the bars, and dropped the note. A moment later he heard a bell ring loudly and sharply. Doubtless one of the men he had overthrown had at once run to it, and was giving the alarm, which would send all the monks to the entrance. He had done what he had to do, so he walked quietly downstairs again. Five of the monks were huddled in the passage, and at his approach they took to headlong flight. With a laugh Arthur entered his cell and sat down. Presently a terrified face appeared at the door and looked in.

"Come in," Arthur said cheerfully. "I trust I did not hurt any of you. I merely wished to see whether my muscles were in working order. I find that they are quite right, thank you, and, having ascertained that, have come back to my cell. You can, if you like, shut the door again, for this room is rather draughty when it is open."

The door was immediately shut, and the bolts shot. Arthur wondered what the next move would be. No one came near him for two hours; then to his surprise he heard a grinding sound against the door, and half a minute later the head of an auger appeared. Another hole was made touching the first, then a fine saw was thrust through. This began to work, and presently a piece was cut out of the door some six inches wide and eighteen inches long. After a pause the piece was fitted in again. Next he heard a sound of screws being driven in, and then he saw that hinges had been fastened to the flap, so that it could be opened and closed from the other side at will. Then he heard two bolts fixed to it. The noise went on for some time, and he knew by the sound that two more bolts had been screwed on to the door itself.

He saw at once that the monks intended in future to pass his food in to him, instead of entering his cell. This proved to be the case. The flap was opened and his tray handed in, together with a basin of water. "They are determined that the monks shall not be exposed to assault and battery again," he laughed. "I have evidently given them a scare. Now, I have nothing to do but wait and see if anything comes of my note."

A fortnight of anxious waiting passed. His food, books, and water were handed in regularly, but no one entered his cell. He listened anxiously whenever he heard the slightest stir in the monastery that would tell him that search was being made, but no such sound met his ear. At last he came to the conclusion that his note could never have reached Leon's hands. Being but a scrap of paper, it might have escaped the eyes of passers-by and been trodden in the mud; or again, the prior might at once have suspected the reason of his strange conduct and despatched a monk to pick up the note. Several times he wrote the same message on pieces of paper, rolled them up into a small ball, and threw them through the window in the hope that some passer-by might be attracted by the sight of the pellet, and open it to see what was in it.

Till the end of a fortnight he remained patient, spending most of his time in reading; but when he finally determined that the letter had gone astray, he threw aside his books and decided that he must rely upon himself. It was evident that if he was to escape at all, it must be through the wall under the window. He had read of escapes by prisoners, and some of these had been performed in circumstances at least as difficult as those that confronted him, and with means no better than the knife he had in his possession. Much must, of course, depend upon the thickness of the wall and the materials of which it was built. He could see by the window that it must be at least two feet thick, and if constructed of solid blocks of stone there would be no possibility of getting them out, as his knife was but some six inches long in the blade, so that it would be necessary to wear the wall away into dust. Of course, if there were no other way, this is what he must attempt.

But for the precaution that had been taken to prevent his escape, this would not have been possible, for the monks, when they came in, could not have failed to notice the gradual crumbling away of the wall. There was, however, one other chance. As this was a subterranean, or almost subterranean room, there was not likely to be a vault under it; therefore it was probable that the wall was not continued far under the bottom of his cell. It might be one foot, it might be two, but the solid stonework would not go much deeper; it would rest upon a bed of concrete, or possibly of loose rubble. Once through that, he would probably find nothing but earth between him and the pavement above. These pavements were in most of the side streets mere cobble stones. He therefore set to work now to examine the stones forming the floor. They were about two feet square, and after some consideration he determined that the best to operate upon would be that at the foot of his bed, as this would be hidden from the sight of anyone looking through the trap. His greatest difficulty would be to get rid of the materials that must necessarily be removed. Stones he might manage to clear out by throwing them through the window with sufficient force to carry them across the street; earth, he finally concluded, he would have to dispose of in the same way.

In order to do this, however, he would have to reach the window. Of course, if he were certain that the cell would never be entered, he could pile it up against the wall to the right and left of the door, for the hole was too narrow to admit a head. However, this was a risk that he would not like to run. The excavation would occupy many weeks, possibly many months, and it was hardly likely that so long a time would elapse before a visit was made to his cell. After much thinking he concluded that if he took up two of the slabs, and placed one against the wall and the other upon it, he could just reach the window. Then, by fastening the end of a blanket to one of the bars, he could easily pull himself up by it and throw the mould outside.

This was certain to be slow work, and a few handfuls of soil scattered on the road would not be likely to attract any attention. Examining the floor carefully, he saw that the slabs of stone were by no means even, from which he concluded that they were not laid in cement, probably not even in concrete, but that the ground had been simply smoothed down and the flags laid on it, and perhaps hammered down. The cells had probably not been intended as living rooms, but were used as prisons, perhaps as far back as the days of the Inquisition.

Having once made up his mind and carefully examined the stones, Arthur lay down on the floor and prepared to act. He had just finished his breakfast and handed out the tray as usual, so he would not be disturbed again for at least four hours. He began with his knife to loosen the stone at the foot of his bed, which was on the left-hand side of the cell, and found to his satisfaction that the slabs were laid close together, but not so closely that the knife would not in most places go down between them.

The crevices were filled up with the dust of many years, and it took him till dinner-time to clear this out. He was gratified at finding, however, that while in some places his knife encountered stones when he thrust it deep, at other points he could push it down to the hilt without encountering any obstacle. This showed him that his conjecture was correct. The ground had simply been smoothed down, chips of stone from the building thrown upon it and mixed with the sand, and on this the paving had been laid down. Beyond the fact that his knife went lower than the bottom of the stone, he could not tell how thick the floor was, but he judged that it would probably be three or four inches. It was evident that he could not get this up by the mere leverage of the knife, and he would only break the tool if he attempted it.

This he had expected would be the case, and after the dinner interval he began what he knew would be one of the most tedious parts of the undertaking. It was necessary that he should scrape away part of the stone in order to get his fingers under. His pocket-knife was evidently a better tool for this than the dinner knife he had hitherto used. The slab, so far as he could make out, was a sandstone, but how hard he could not tell. He began by dipping his handkerchief into his basin and letting fall a few drops at the place upon which he intended to operate, namely, next his bed. He started very carefully, giving a sort of rotatory motion to his knife. Gradually the water he had dropped there became a little turbid; this afforded him some encouragement, and he worked steadily on till evening, by which time he had succeeded in removing a piece of the stone an eighth of an inch deep.

After supper he began again, and continued the work far into the night, for he was always furnished with a lamp. At last he had increased the hole to a depth of fully a quarter of an inch, and a width equal to that of his four fingers. Well satisfied with this result, he threw himself on his pallet and slept soundly until the flap was opened and his breakfast tray thrust in. As soon as he had finished his breakfast he set to work again, this time using the knife that had been handed in with his breakfast, and which would not be demanded of him until he returned the tray when he received his dinner. He was glad to make the change, for his hands were blistered badly by the previous day's work, and the smoothness of the dinner knife was a relief to him; besides, he saw that he had already worn away the point of his pocket-knife.

After a fortnight's steady work he had the satisfaction of feeling the knife go through. In two more days he was able to get his hand in. He now cleared out some of the earth at the bottom, and then, putting his hand below the stone, exerted his strength to the utmost, and was delighted to find that it yielded. He laid it down and executed a dance of triumph, which would have astonished the monks had they looked in.