The road at first ran through the plain, where, on every side, there stretched away fields of brown grass, with flocks of sheep and goats. The attendants upon these were nowhere visible, and this lack of human life and action gave to the country an indescribable air of solitude and desertion. In other respects, however, there was everything which could gratify the eye and the taste. The land was fertile, the soil cultivated, the scenery beautiful. Tall trees—the mulberry and the poplar—arose in long lines; here and there the cactus stretched forth its thorny arms, and at intervals there appeared the dark green of extensive olive-groves. Behind the traveller there extended a wall of purple hills, and before him arose the giant heights of the Pyrenees. Among these last the road at length entered, and, winding along at the base of sloping hills, it ascended very gradually.

The priest walked onward at a long, slinging pace, which told of the experienced pedestrian. For three hours he kept this up, being too intent upon his progress, and upon his own thoughts, to pay much attention to the scenery, except so far as was needed for purposes of precaution. Save for this, the external form of nature and the many beauties around him were disregarded; and at length, after three hours, he sat down to rest at a rock by the wayside. Sitting here, he drew forth from his pocket a well-used pipe, which he filled and lighted; after which he sat smoking, and surveying, in a contemplative manner, the scene before him.

It was, in truth, a scene well worthy of contemplation. For many a mile the eye of the beholder could rove over the course of the Ebro, and take in the prospect of one of the fairest lands in all the world. He had advanced high enough to overlook the valley, which lay behind him, with lines of hills in the distance, while in front arose the mountains dark in the heavy shade. To the west the country spread away until, in the far distance, it ended in a realm of glory. For here the sun was sinking into a wide basin formed by a break in the lines of mountains, filling it all with fire and splendor; and while the hollow between the hills was thus filled with flame, immediately above this there were piled up vast masses of heavy strata clouds, of fantastic shapes and intense blackness. Above these the sky grew clearer, but was still overlaid with thin streaks of cirrus clouds, which were tinted with every hue of the rainbow, and spread over all the western heavens up to the zenith and beyond.

In that low mass of strata clouds which overhung the sunset there was now a wild convulsion. A storm was raging there, too far away to be felt, but plainly visible. The fantastic shapes were flung together in furious disorder; through the confused masses electric flashes shot forth; sometimes in floods of glory, sometimes in straight lines of forked lightning, sometimes in rounded lumps of suddenly revealed fire—the true bolts of Jove. Toward the south the hills lay wrapped in haze and gloom, and in one part there was a heavy shower, where the rain streamed down in vertical lines.

The sun went down, leaving behind it a redder splendor by which all was glorified; the river wound in molten gold; the trees were tipped with purple lustre; the crests of the mountains took on aureoles of light. As the sun still descended, the scene was slowly transformed; the splendor lessened; the clouds broke up into other forms; the thick strata mass dissipated itself; then came a golden haze over the wide west; the moon revealed itself over the head of Scorpio, with Antares beaming from a bright place in the sky.

The scenes shifted rapidly, and twilight deepened, until the clouds made way for the moon, and, breaking up into thin light masses, swept away over the sky; while the moon, assuming its proper functions, looked mildly down, and bathed all the valley in a mellow lustre.

After about half an hour's rest, the priest arose, put his pipe in his pocket, and resumed his long stride. Up the road he went, without stopping again, as though he had resolved to cross the Pyrenees in that one night, and be over in France by morning: of whom it might be said, in the words of the Chinese poet,

"That young man walkee no can stop."

Another hour brought him a good four miles farther on, and still he kept up the same pace. He now reached a place where the road took a somewhat sudden turn, and wound around a rocky projection on the lull-side. Here, as he turned, he came full upon a figure that was walking in the opposite direction.

It was the figure of a woman; and in that bright moonshine it was easy to see that she was young, and graceful, and light, and elastic. Coming suddenly upon the priest as she did, at the turn in the road, she was evidently quite terrified. Her attitude was that of a stealthy fugitive; and as she met him there was, in her sudden involuntary gesture, the appearance of one who has been captured by a pursuer. For an instant she recoiled in an agony of terror, but then one glance at the costume of the priest seemed to reassure her; and then, clasping her hands, she came nearer, and said, in tremulous tones:

"Padre! padre! per l'amor de Dios soccorre me!"

The priest looked at her for a few moments in silence. Then he spoke.

"Etez vous Francaise, mademoiselle?"

The woman shook her head.

"E ella Italiana?"

Again she shook her head.

"Sind sie Deutsch?"

Another shake of the head, and then she said:

"Yo soy Inglesa."

The priest gave a long whistle.

"English!" he cried; "English! Then in future please be kind enough to speak English, for your Spanish—is—well, declined, with thanks."

At these words the woman started, and then, with an uncontrollable impulse, seized the hand of the priest in a convulsive grasp.

"Oh!" she cried, "are you really—really an Englishman? Oh, thank Heaven! thank Heaven! Then you will help me!"

"English?" said the priest; "well, for the matter of that, I'm anything you please just now, in this infernal country. I certainly do speak English, but at the same time I prefer calling myself what I am—namely, an American."

This loquacity of the priest made no impression upon the woman, who was absorbed now by her one idea of escape, of obtaining help, of flight.

"Oh, sir," she continued, "can you help me? Can I go on by this road? Do you know what I can do? Will you tell me?"

"Oh yes," said the priest, "I'll tell you. I do not know what you can do. What can you do? You can read, perhaps, and I suppose you can play the piano, and crochet; but I know what you cannot do—you cannot speak Spanish."

These words were spoken with the indifferent air of one who is thinking of something else.

"Ah, sir," said the woman, in a tone of anguish, "don't mock at me! I'm in distress unspeakable. I've—I've lost my way."

She could scarcely speak from agitation. The priest was silent for a moment. Then he drew a long breath.

"Lost your way?" said he. "Well, that is queer too. Your way—and what way can that be in times like these, and here in this country, and, above all, in this part of the country? Are you walking for a wager? Are you going round the world in a bee-line? Do you carry a portable canoe?"

"I was in the diligence," said the woman, not choosing to notice such ill-timed levity, "and we were stopped—by the Carlists—and I escaped—and I'm trying to find my way to some safe place—but I cannot—I cannot."

"H'm!" said the priest, "that is a coincidence too—just my own case to a T. I've been captured by the Carlists too, and I've escaped, and I'm now making a bolt for a place of safety. Well, this does beat my grandmother, I must say!"

The lady was too full of her own troubles to notice the peculiar expressions of the priest. She merely continued, as before, to beg for help.

"Oh, sir," said she, "do you know the way here? and can you help me?"



"Well," said the priest, "I know some of it, I may say, but that depends on what you mean by knowing it. But will you allow me to ask you one or two questions? In the first place, where did you come from last?"

"Last?" said the lady; "the last place I came from was Barcelona."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"You spoke of a diligence. You must have come from Barcelona by train."

"Of course."

"Then that must have been the train that stopped over there."

"Yes; the train stopped. I understood that it was not going on any farther for a long time, for that the track was torn up. A diligence was prepared for those passengers who were anxious to go on immediately, and I was most eager to proceed without delay, so as to get to my home as soon as possible. So, early this morning, we left, and came, without any incident of any kind until we reached a place about five miles away. There we were stopped and robbed. I believe all the passengers were detained and held as prisoners—at least I myself was. I was handed over to the care of a peasant woman, who took me to a cottage. About two hours ago she came to me and told me that I might go, and urged me to fly at once. I could not understand her very well, for I know very little Spanish indeed, but I could see that she was sorry for me, and offered me this chance of escape. It was also quite evident that she considered me in great danger, and was frightened about me. I felt deeply grateful, and offered her a gold locket which had escaped the notice of the robbers, but she refused it. So then I started off. I've come along the road ever since, and have seen no one except yourself. And now, sir," continued the lady, looking at the priest with intense earnestness, "can you help me? Will you? Oh, for the love of—"

Here the priest interrupted her. The lady had spoken in a low voice, which had a very mournful cadence, and besides this there were signs of deep emotion in the tremulous tones and the agitated manner. Her flight had been a long and a hurried one; the exertion had been severe; her strength had been put forth to the utmost; she was on the verge of utter exhaustion. Everything in her appearance, voice, and manner combined to inspire pity and sympathy. The good priest had seemed not unmoved as she was speaking, and now he interrupted her, raising his hand, and speaking in a very gentle voice.

"Ah, now," said he, "come—none of that! Do you think me a savage, that you must pray to me for mercy? Help you!" he repeated, in stronger tones. "Ay, madame, that will I, and with the last drop of my heart's-blood and to my life's end. There, is that strong enough? Help you!"—and he gave a short laugh—"that's good, too! Why, what else have I been thinking of ever since I met you? What else can you suppose that I intend to do? Isn't it enough for me to see your distress? But come—it isn't quite so safe as it might be, and enemies may be lurking near. We must first find a place of retirement, where we can decide on what is best to be done."

The tones of the priest's voice were now totally different from those which he had employed hitherto. These were harsh, dry, indifferent, almost mocking; but now they were full of sincere feeling and unmistakable truth. Their effect upon the lady was very marked and strong. She clasped her hands, bowed her head, and in her weakness was unable to bear up under this new revulsion of feeling; so she burst into tears and stood there weeping.

At this the priest was not a little embarrassed. For a moment he seemed about to try to soothe her; but be checked this impulse, and looked away, whistling softly to himself. After a few moments he went on, speaking in a gentle voice:

"I've been going along alone easily enough, but now, if you will come with me, I shall have to make some changes in my plans. You see, two cannot travel so easily as one; and then you are a lady, and an English lady too, which in these parts means a wealthy foreigner—an object of plunder. You, as an English lady, run an amount of risk to which I, as a Spanish priest, am not at all exposed. So you see we can no longer remain in so public a place as this high-road. We must seek some secure place, at least for the present. You don't seem able to go much farther. This moonlight night is just the time for flight, but you need rest now, and unless you get that first you won't be able to escape at all. And so—what do you say to my hunting up a hiding-place for the night?"

As the priest began to speak, the lady had made a violent effort to recover herself and had succeeded well enough to listen attentively, only showing by an occasional sigh or sob that her distress had not yet passed away altogether. At the priest's question she paused thoughtfully for a short time, and then said,

"My being with you will make a great difference to you?"

"Oh yes," said the priest.

"It will perhaps endanger your safety," continued the lady, anxiously.

"Oh, that is nothing," said the priest; "that is my normal state. I am always in danger."

"Still, I should be sorry to add to your danger," she said, hesitatingly; "and if—if—"

"Well," said the priest, sharply, "if what?"

"If I am a source of danger," said the lady, calmly, "I should prefer going on alone, just as I was; and I shall only ask you to tell me what is the nearest town, and to give me generally the direction to it."

"Oh, you will, will you?" said the priest, in the mocking tone which he had previously used. "Well, then, madame, I shall only ask you to do as I say, and ask no questions. I know the country—you don't. I have registered a vow in heaven to save you, and save you I will, even in spite of all your teeth. I swear it in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!"

At these strange words the lady was silent for a few moments, and then said, in a tremulous voice,

"I'll do anything that you wish me to do."

"Furthermore, my hearer," continued the priest, suddenly assuming and immediately dropping the whine of a rustic preacher, "mark this—I don't mind saying a few words to ease your scruples: you cannot make my position any more dangerous than it is already. I carry my life in my hand all the time."

"Still," said the lady, "you can easily take care of yourself; but what a terrible thing it would be if you should get into trouble on my account!"

"Well, I'll ask only one question—what is your calling in life?"

"I have no calling. I'm a lady—"

"Spinster?" said the priest, in a mild voice.

"Yes," said the lady, gravely, and with deep sadness. It seemed to the priest that he had unwittingly touched upon a tender point.

"Pardon me," said he, "this is all I wish to get at. You are not a politician, not a political agent, not a spy?"

"Certainly not."

"Nor a newspaper correspondent?"

"No."

"Not even an artist?"

"No; nothing but a simple English lady, and only anxious to get back home."

"Very well—very good!" said the priest, approvingly. "And you shall go home, too; but remember what I said, and trust in me. And now let us see what we had better do. I've been here before, all through and through this country, and know it like a book. Now just over there, a little to the west, there is an old unoccupied castle, which is in very good condition, considering that it's a thousand years old. It is just the place for us. Unfortunately, there may be others in it, for it is held from time to time by the one or the other of the fighting factions; yet, even in that case I know of an odd corner or two where we can elude observation for the present; for it is a very—a monstrously large castle, and I happen to know the ins and outs of it pretty well. I can assure you a good night's rest there."

"It is not inhabited, you say."

"No, not as a general thing."

"I'm sorry for that. If it were, the people would perhaps give us shelter and food, and help us on our way."

"The people would perhaps give us more shelter than we might care for. But come—we ought to be off, for you need rest, and that soon."

The lady said nothing, but walked along with the priest. For about a quarter of a mile they followed the road, and then turned away to the left over the country. Here their pathway lay over the flank of the mountain, and traversed open fields which were used for pasture. The moon shone brightly, illuminating the scene, and the priest walked with the assured air of one who knew his way thoroughly.

The lady, who all along had seemed much fatigued, now began to give more evident signs of distress. The priest made her take his arm: she did so, and for a time was relieved. He sought to cheer her with encouraging words. She responded nobly, and certainly made all the effort in her power; but her strength had that day been too sorely tasked, and threatened to fail her utterly. At last she sank to the ground, and sat there, while the priest waited patiently.

"Courage!" said he. "Cheer up! We shall soon be there now."

After a short rest the lady recovered a little, and made a final effort. They walked on as before, the lady holding the priest's arm, and moving forward by dint of desperate exertions. So they went until at last there appeared immediately ahead a massive tower, which seemed to arise from behind some trees.

"There it is," said the priest. "One more effort."

But the lady could go no farther. She sank down on the ground once more, with something like a groan.

"I can go no farther," said she, in a faint voice.

The priest made no reply, but stood for some time in silence watching her. It was evident that he hoped for another rally of her powers, but he was disappointed; for the lady sat with her head bowed down, trembling, weeping, and all unnerved. Time passed, and there was no revival of strength.

"Madame!" said the priest at length, in a harsh and constrained voice.

At this the lady gave a sigh, and tried to raise herself, but without success. After a useless effort she sank down again.

"Madame," said the priest, "to stay here is out of the question. We have not much farther to go; the place of our destination is not far off, and I am going to carry you there."

"No," said the lady, "you must not. I—I—"

"Madame," interrupted the other, "as a priest it is my duty to succor the distressed, and even as a man I should feel bound to save you."

"It's too much for you," said the lady, faintly. "Save yourself. It's no matter—what—becomes of—of me."

"Oh, it isn't, isn't it?" said the priest, in his dryest manner. "Well, you will please remember that you and I are in the same boat, and we must win or lose together. And so, as I don't intend to be captured yet awhile, why, madame, with your permission, and begging your pardon, I'll take the liberty of saving you in my own way. At the same time, please remember that it's not for your sake I'm doing this so much as for my own."

What possible meaning there might be to these last words the priest did not explain, nor did the lady understand. In fact, there was no time for explanation. The priest, without any more ado, raised the lady in his arms and marched off with her.

He was not a very large man, but he was very muscular, and in excellent training; so he trudged on at a pace which, under all the circumstances, was really wonderful. Fortunately he did not have very far to carry his burden. Before long he came to a grove of large trees, which stood wide apart and admitted of an easy passage. Traversing this, he at length reached a low tower, which was in a half-ruinous condition. It stood upon the brink of a deep chasm, the sides of which were densely wooded, while at the bottom there was a brawling brook. Upon the other side of the chasm appeared the outline of a stately castle, with walls and towers and battlements and keep, all plainly discernible as they rose up in giant proportions.



CHAPTER IX.

IN WHICH THE PRIEST SEES A VISION, AND GOES IN SEARCH OF A BREAKFAST.

The priest placed the lady on the ground near the trunk of a fallen tree, against which she might lean, and then, turning away, he drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, and began cutting armfuls of brushwood and twigs of shrubs. These he canned into the tower and spread over the floor with the skill of a practised hand, while the lady sat where he had left her, with her head bowed down, taking no notice of anything, and seeming like one who was quite prostrated in mind as well as in body. When at last the priest's task was ended, he went to her and carried her inside the tower.

"Here," said he, "is some brushwood. I'm sorry that there isn't anything better, but better is a stone couch with liberty than a bed of down with captivity. Don't be worried or frightened. If there is any danger, I'll sound the alarm in Zion and get you off in time."

The lady murmured some inarticulate words, and the priest then left her and went outside. He there spent some little time in gathering some brush for himself, which he spread upon the grass, under the castle wall; after which, he seated himself upon it, and pulling out his pipe, he filled it and began to smoke.

Hitherto he had been too much preoccupied to pay any very close attention to the world around; but now, as he sat there, he became aware of sounds which arose apparently from the interior of the great castle on the other side of the chasm. The sounds did not startle him in the least, however, and he was evidently prepared for something of this sort. Between this tower and the great castle there intervened the deep chasm; and though no doubt the two structures had once been connected, yet all connection had long since been destroyed, and now there was no visible way of passing from the one to the other. The priest, therefore, felt as secure as though he were miles away, and listened serenely to the noises.

There came to his ears sounds of singing, and laughter, and revelry, with shouts and cries that rang out upon the air of night. There seemed to be no small stir in the castle, as though a multitude had gathered there, and had given themselves up securely to general merriment. But all this troubled not the priest one whit, for he calmly finished his pipe, and then, laying it down, he disposed his limbs in a comfortable position, still keeping a sitting posture, and in this attitude he fell asleep and slept the sleep of the just.

Very early on the following morning our good priest opened his eyes, and the first object that they rested upon was the lady, who stood there full before him, and greeted him with a gentle smile.

The priest had not seen her very well on the previous evening, and now as he saw her face in full daylight, it seemed different from that which had met his view under the moonbeams. The lady was of slender form, a trifle over the middle height, and of marked dignity of bearing. Her face was perfectly beautiful in the outline of its features, but this was as nothing when compared with the refined and exquisite grace, the perfect breeding, the quick intelligence, and the womanly tenderness that were all expressed in those noble lineaments. It was a face full of calm self-possession, and gave indications of a great and gracious nature, which could be at once loving and brave, and tender and true. Her hair, which was very luxuriant, was closely bound up in dark auburn masses; her lips were full of sweet sensitiveness; and thus she stood looking at him with dark hazel eyes that seemed to glow with feeling and intelligence, till the good priest thought that never in all his life had he seen anything half so fair. In fact, so overcome was he that he sat staring at her for some time without one word, and without giving any response whatever to the pleasant words of greeting which she spoke.

"I'm very sorry indeed," said she, as the priest still stared in silence at her, "that I was such a trouble to you, after all your—your kindness; but the fact is, I was so wretchedly fatigued that I was scarcely responsible for my actions. It was too selfish in me; but now I mean to make amends, and help you in every possible way. Would you like me to do anything? Sha'n't I get breakfast?"

She spoke these words with a smile, in which, however, there was not a little sadness. There was nothing in the words themselves beyond that painful consideration for others and forgetfulness of self which the priest had observed in her the night before; but the voice was a wonderful one—a round, full contralto, yet soft and low, with a certain mysteriously tremulous undertone that fell with a thrill upon his ear.

The priest started up.

"Breakfast!" said he, with a short laugh. "That is the very thing I was thinking of myself. I consider that an all-important subject."

"It is certainly a serious matter," said she.

"And you propose to get it for me?"

"Yes," said she, with a faint smile, "if I can."

"I really wish you would," continued the priest, "for it would save me from a great responsibility; for if you don't get it for me, hang me if I know where I can get any for myself."

"What do you mean?" said she. "Have we nothing to eat?"

"Well, not so bad as that. I have a bit of a sandwich, I believe, and you may have it."

With this he produced from his pocket a tin sandwich case and offered it to her.

She refused.

"If that is the last that you have," said she, "I can wait."

"But you must eat it, so as to get back your strength."



"And what will you do?"

"Oh, I'm an old hand at fasting. It's my business."

"As priest, I suppose?" said the lady, with a smile that was brighter, or rather less mournful, than any which the priest had thus far seen on her melancholy face.

"Yes, as priest," said the other, dryly. "And now will you take it?"

"Do you ever think about yourself?" asked the lady, in a low voice, in which the thrill was more perceptible than usual.

"About myself? Oh yes," said he; "I never think of anything else. My motto is to take care of Number One. It's only for my own sake that I'm anxious for you to eat; but if you won't take it all, why, you'll have to be content with half. You won't refuse to share with me and take half?"

"By no means. I sha'n't object to take the half, if you choose."

"Well," said he, "that's fair; so let's begin our breakfast. Would you mind sitting on that tree over there?"

He led the way to the fallen tree already mentioned, and the two seated themselves. He then opened the tin case and drew forth a few sandwiches. From these they made their frugal repast.

"You must cultivate patience," said the priest, as he ate. "I know exactly what's in your mind. You want to be off. But, according to the proverb, the more haste the less speed. Tell me—would you rather be here or in the hands of the Carlists?"

"Here."

"Well, I'm afraid if we move incautiously we may be seen and captured by the Carlists. So before we start I propose to reconnoitre. Will you remain here?"

"I will do whatever you direct."

"You are very good and sensible."

"Thanks; but where do you propose to go."

"I'm going to visit the castle over there."

"The castle?"

"Yes. It is full of people. That they are Carlists I haven't a doubt. I mean to visit them, and find out how the land lies."

"But the danger is too great, is it not? May they not detain you?"

"I must run the risk of that."

"Was it your intention to go among the Carlists before you met me?"

"Well, not exactly. I was on my way, and that way might have led among them."

"Are you running this risk for my sake?"

"Well, not particularly, although I have an eye to you in this matter. My chief aim is, just now, to get something for dinner, and after that to find out what is the safest direction for us to take."

The lady sat in thoughtful silence for some time.

"I am afraid," said she, "that you are incurring a terrible risk. You are now out of danger; why put yourself into it? Why may we not fly now, or to-night? I can fast for any length of time."

"The danger is," said the priest, "that we may both fall into the hands of the very men we wish to avoid."

"But that is the very thing you are going to do."

"I—Oh, I can go alone anywhere."

"Ah, there it is!" said the lady, bitterly. "It is I who am a drag on you. It is I who am getting you into danger. Yet why not leave me? Tell me where the road is: I will go back alone."

"Oh, well," said the priest, with his usual short laugh, "as for that, we may talk of it again. I'll tell you presently. It may come to that, but I hope not. I am going to that castle all the same. I've been there before, and without harm: I expect to come back. But suppose I do not, how long will you wait here for me?"

"As long as you say."

"Twenty-four hours?"

"Yes."

"Very well. I do not think they will detain me, but it is best to be prepared. And now, by way of preliminary, I will show you how I can go over there. Remember, I have been here before, and have become acquainted with some of the secrets of this place. If you should be in danger, or if I should not come back, you will be able to fly by the way which I will now show you."

The priest arose and entered the tower, followed by the lady. The pavement was of stone: part of it was open, and some ruinous steps led into a cellar. Here they descended, and found themselves in a place which had been excavated from the rock which formed three sides of the place. On the fourth was a wall, in which was a wide gap that looked out upon the chasm. It seemed as though there had once been a bridge at this point leading over to the castle.

"Here," said the priest, "if you look out you cannot imagine any possibility of descent, but if you examine carefully you will perceive a narrow ledge among the shrubbery. Go out on this, and follow it along, and you will find it growing wider as it goes down. It will take you all the way to the bottom of this chasm, and there you will find stepping-stones by which to cross the brook, and on the opposite side a trail like this, which will lead you to the top of the opposite ridge."

"I don't think that I should feel inclined to try it," said the lady; "but I am glad, all the same, that I have a mode of retreat. It makes one feel less desperate."

"Oh, you know, I hope to be back again."

"But what shall I do if you do not return?" said the lady.

"That is what troubles me," said the priest. "To think of you making your escape alone—"

"That is not what I meant," said the lady. "I referred to my own self-reproach. If you do not come back, I shall feel as though your blood is required at my hands."

The priest looked at her and gave his short laugh.

"I shouldn't advise you to come after me to the castle," said he. "Your chief difficulty will be the commissariat. If I do not come back before twenty-four hours, you will then have to fly for yourself. In that case, do not go back to the road you were on before. Do not go to the castle. Take this path and go down to the bottom of the chasm, and up the other side to the top of the ridge. Keep under trees as much as possible. Travel due south. Heaven help you! God bless you! Good-bye!"

He looked at the lady. Her eyes, which were fixed on him, seemed overflowing with feeling; but whether of anxiety for him or fear for herself did not appear.

"You seem to me to be going to death," said she, in a low voice, "and I am the cause!"

"To death!" said the priest, with his usual laugh. "Moriturus te salutat. Pardon!—that's Latin. At any rate, we may as well shake hands over it."

He held out his hand. She caught it in both of hers.

"God protect you!" she murmured, in a low voice, with quivering lips. "I shall be in despair till you come back. I shall never have the courage to fly. If you do not come back, I shall die in this tower."

"Child," said the priest, in a sad, sweet voice, "you are too despondent. I will come back—do not fear. Try and get rid of these gloomy thoughts. And now, once more, good-bye."

He pressed her hand and departed through the gap. He then began his descent, while the lady stood watching him with anxious eyes and despairing face till he had passed out of sight.



CHAPTER X.

HOW THE PRIEST BEARDS A LION IN HIS DEN.

The priest walked down the path into the chasm. It ran along a ledge, which at first was narrow, and quite concealed from view by dense masses of shrubbery, which grew all down the sloping sides of the abyss, covering the rock with a green mantle, and giving it an inviting aspect of richness and verdure. In such a place no one could have suspected the existence or even the possibility of any pathway; and this one must have been made with no little labor and skill, in the ancient days, when fighting bands had need to pass and repass.

After a few paces the path became more clearly defined. It was very steep, yet easy enough in the descent, and went down in a zigzag direction until it reached the bottom of the chasm. Here there was a brook whose babbling had been heard from above. In winter this was a fierce torrent, but now it was reduced to a slender and shallow stream. In its bed lay great bowlders of granite, which afforded stepping-stones to those who might wish to pass, and could be used at any time except when the water was swollen by mountain floods.

After traversing these the priest came to the other side, and began to ascend a path of the same kind as that by which he had descended. Here he climbed about halfway up, and then paused. At this point there were two paths, one of which seemed to go up to the castle, while the other went along the side of the chasm. The latter he chose, and along this he went, ascending very gradually, until at last he reached the top of the ridge on which the castle was situated.

He now turned and directed his steps straight toward the castle, which he soon reached. At the gate stood some armed tatterdemalions, whom the priest recognized as having formed part of the gang that had stopped the train the day before. Of these he took no heed, but walked up boldly and asked to see their captain. One of the guards went with him, and after traversing the court-yard they came to the keep. Here the Carlist chief was seen lolling on a stone bench outside, and smoking a villanous cigar. As the priest approached, he started to his feet with no little surprise on his face, together with a dark and menacing frown, which did not by any means augur well for the bold adventurer.

"Who are you?" he asked, fiercely.

The priest in return eyed the Carlist from head to foot, and then said, in a sharp, authoritative tone,

"Your name and rank?"

At this singular rejoinder to his question the Carlist chief looked somewhat amazed.

"My name?" said he, with a sneer. "Never mind what it is. What are you? Who are you? What the devil do you mean by coming here?"

"Give your name and rank," persisted the priest, in the same tone as before, "and beware how you trifle with one who may be your master. Who gave you authority to occupy this post?"

"Master?—authority?" cried the Carlist chief, with an oath, which was followed by a laugh. "Who is my master? I never saw him. Here, you fellows!" he cried, to some of his gang who stood near, "take this fellow off—take him inside. Let me see—take him to the lower dungeons, and let him see who is master here!"

At this a score of stout ruffians came forward to obey the order. But the priest remained as cool as before. He simply drew forth a paper, and looking round upon the ruffians, he said, in a quiet voice,

"Keep back, you fellows, and take care what you do! I'm the Cure of Santa Cruz."

At that formidable name the whole band stopped short, mute and awe-struck; for it was no common name which he had thus announced. It was a name which already had been trumpeted over the world, and in Spain had gained a baleful renown—a name which belonged to one who was known as the right arm of Don Carlos, one who was known as the beau ideal of the Spanish character, surpassing all others in splendid audacity and merciless cruelty; lavish generosity and bitterest hate; magnificent daring and narrowest fanaticism. At once chivalrous and cruel, pious and pitiless, brave and bigoted, meek and merciless, the Cure of Santa Cruz had embodied in himself all that was brightest and darkest in the Spanish character, and his name had become a word to conjure by—a word of power like that of Garibaldi in Italy, Schamyl in Circassia, or Stonewall Jackson in America. And thus when these ruffians heard that name it worked upon them like a spell, and they stood still, awe-struck and mute. Even the Carlist chief was compelled to own its power, although, perhaps, he would not have felt by any means inclined to submit to that potent spell had he not seen its effect upon his followers.

"I don't believe it," he growled.

"You do believe it," said the priest, fiercely: "you know it. Besides, I hold here the mandate of the King;" and he brandished the paper, shouting at the same time, "Viva el Rey!" at which all the men caught up the same cry and shouted in unison.

The priest smiled a good-natured, amiable, forgiving smile.

"After all," said he, in a milder voice, "it is well for you to be cautious. I approve of this rough reception: it is soldierlike. It shows that you are true to the King. But read this. Give me something to eat and drink, and then I will tell you my errand."

With these words he handed the paper to the Carlist chief, who took it somewhat sulkily, and read as follows:

"_Head-quarters, Vera, August 23d, 1873.

"To all officers of the army, and to all good and loyal subjects, greeting: Receive and respect our friend and lieutenant the Cure of Santa Cruz, who bears this, and is engaged in a special mission in our service. CARLOS_."

On reading this the Carlist chief drew a long breath, looked around upon his followers, elevated his eyebrows, and finally turned to the priest.

"What do you want?" he asked, in no very courteous manner.

"Nothing," said the priest. "Not one single thing from you but—breakfast. Don't be alarmed. I haven't come in here to interfere with you at all. My business is elsewhere. Do you understand me?"

The priest gave him a glance which was meant to convey more than the words expressed. At this the whole manner of the Carlist chief underwent a change. He at once dropped all his sourness and gloom.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, eagerly.

The priest nodded.

"Certainly."

"Then," cried the Carlist, "you're right welcome, and I hope you'll not mind what's happened. We have to be cautious, you know, and suspicious."

"My dear friend, I assure you I shouldn't have troubled you at all, only I'm starving."

"Then I swear you shall have the best breakfast in all Spain. Come in; come in. Come, in the name of Heaven, and I'll give you a breakfast that will last you for a week."

With these words the Carlist chief led the way inside, and the priest followed.

It was the lower story of the central building, or keep, and was constructed, in the most massive manner, out of vast blocks of rough-hewn stone. The apartment was about fifty feet in length, twenty-five in width, and twelve in height. On either side there were openings into chambers or passage-ways. The roof was vaulted, and at the farther end of the apartment there was a stairway constructed of the same cyclopean stones as the rest of the edifice. All the stone-work here visible had the same ponderous character, and seemed formed to last for many centuries to come.

Around the sides of this lower hall were suspended arms and accoutrements. There were also rude massive benches, upon which were flung rugs and blankets. Here and there were little groups, not only of men, but also of women and children. On the left side there was an enormous chimney, which was large enough for a separate chamber. In this a fire was burning, and a woman was attending to the cooking of a savory stew. An aromatic smell of coffee was diffusing itself through the atmosphere; and this was surrounded and intermingled with the stronger and ranker, though less pungent, odors of the stew aforesaid.

The priest flung himself carelessly into a seat near a massive oaken table, and the Carlist chief took a seat beside him. The priest questioned the chief very closely as to his doings, and the disposition of his people through the country, while the chief surveyed the priest furtively and cautiously.

At last he said, abruptly,

"You were on the train yesterday."

"I was," replied the priest, coolly.

"Why did you not tell me who you were?"

"What a question to ask!" said the priest. "Don't you understand? When I am out I don't want any one to know or suspect. I did not choose to tell even you. Why should I? I didn't know you."

"But you lost your purse," said the chief, in rather a humble voice.

"And was there much in it?" asked the Priest.

The chief laughed.

Breakfast now followed, and of this the priest partook heartily. Then he started up.

"I must make haste," said he, "and continue my journey; but as I am going into out-of-the-way places, I shall have to ask you for some supplies."

This request was very cheerfully granted, loaves and cold meats being furnished from the Carlist larder. These the priest put into a wallet, and thus equipped, he was ready for the march.

"Adios," said he, "noble captain, till we meet again."

"Adios," said the chief.

The priest then shook hands with his entertainer and turned away. Leaving the castle, he walked down the slope for some distance, until at length he reached the skirts of the forest. Turning round here, he stood looking back cautiously, till he felt convinced that he had not been followed, and was not observed. He now plunged into the forest, and worked his way along until he came to the chasm and found the path before mentioned. Down this he went on his way back to the tower.



CHAPTER XI.

HOW THE FIRST PRIEST VANISHES, AND ANOTHER PRIEST APPEARS UPON THE SCENE.

As the priest emerged from the brushwood at the top of the path, he suddenly found himself face to face with the lady. She had come through the opening, and was standing outside waiting there, breathless, her hands clasped, and her eyes set in a fixed and eager gaze of vigilant outlook and of terrified apprehension. As she recognized the priest, her whole expression changed; her face flushed, her eyes grew moist with tears of joy, her lips quivered.

"Oh, thank God! thank God!" she cried. "Oh, how glad I am!"

The priest stood and looked at her in silence, although there was certainly every occasion for saying something. Finally he held out his hand, and she took it in hers, which were cold as ice, and tremulous.



"Poor child!" said the priest, "you have been too excited. But were you not afraid that it might be some one else?"

"Yes," said she; "so afraid that I lost all strength and could not get back. I thought I heard something like that little short laugh of yours that you give, but then it seemed imagination. So I waited, and if it had been an enemy he would have caught me. But I was right, after all," she ended, joyously. "It was your laugh—and you."

Again the priest stood in silence looking at her.

"It's worth going over there," said he at last, "to make a fellow-creature happy by coming back."

"Oh no," she said, "not for that. Nothing can compensate for the frightful, the terrible anxiety—nothing. But I will say no more. I am ready now for any fatigue or peril. My worst fear is over."

"Oh, it's all very well to be glad to see me," said the priest, with that short laugh to which the lady had referred, "but that's nothing to the gladness you'll feel when you see what I've brought back with me. You just wait and see—that's all!"

With these words he ascended into the tower through the gap, and assisted the lady after him. They then went up the broken stairway, and out into the open air to the fallen tree where they had taken their breakfast. Upon this he seated himself, and the lady did the same. He now opened the wallet, and distributed to her some of his stock of provisions, pointing out to her with an air of triumph the fact that they had enough to last them for a week. The lady said but little and ate but little; the priest, for his part, ate less; so the breakfast was soon despatched; after which the priest loaded his pipe and smoked the smoke of peace.

The priest, as he smoked, occasionally threw a furtive glance at the lady, who now sat absorbed in her own meditations.

"I propose to ask you a few questions," said the priest, "merely for the sake of conversation, and you needn't answer unless you like. In the first place, you haven't been long in Spain, I take it?"

"No," said the lady; "only a few days."

"And you are on your way back to England?"

"Yes."

"Have you been travelling alone?"

"At first I had a maid, but she got frightened and left me at Bayonne. Since then I have had to travel alone."

"You mustn't think me too inquisitive," said the priest. "I merely wished to know in a general way, and am by no means trying to pry into your affairs."

He spoke in a careless tone. He was lolling in an easy attitude, and appeared to be enjoying his smoke very much. After saying these words he began to fuss with his pipe, which did not draw well, humming to himself at the same time some absurd verses:

"My love he was a draper's clerk, He came to see me after dark: Around the Park we used to stray To hear the lily-white bandsmen play.

CHORUS OF DRAPER'S CLERKS.

Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound, My love lies buried underground!"

A faint smile came over the lady's face as she heard these nonsensical words from one in the garb of a priest. Still, she reflected that while it was his voice that was singing, his mind was no doubt intent on something else.

"By-the-bye," resumed the priest, "as I'm asking questions, I should like to ask one more. May I?"

"Most certainly," said the lady. "What is it?"

"Well, your name, you know. It's awkward to be as we are. Now, if I were shot, and wanted you to help me, I shouldn't know what to call you."

The lady smiled.

"My name is Talbot," said she.

"Ah—Mrs. Talbot," said the priest; "thanks."

"Not 'Mrs.'" said the lady, again smiling; "Miss Talbot. My full name is Sydney Talbot."

"Sydney Talbot," repeated the priest. "Thanks. That's all. Everything else is told. I may add, however, in an incidental way, that my name is Brooke."

"Father Brooke?" said the lady, interrogatively, with a furtive smile which was perhaps occasioned by the incongruity between the priest's sacred garb and somewhat eccentric manner.

To this question the reply was not particularly appropriate. The priest, or Brooke, as he may now be called, looked with a smile of quiet drollery at Miss Talbot, and then, in a strange whining voice, began to drone out some verses of a song:

"Old Bluebeard was a warrior bold, He kept his wives in a great stronghold. One—Two—Three—Four—Five—Six—Seven— They all of them died and went to Heaven. Old B. fell into a dismal state, And went and married Number Eight."



"Well," he resumed, in his natural voice, "Father Brooke isn't bad; Brother Brooke, however, would be better; but, on the whole, simple 'Brooke' is the best of all."

"Well, now, Mr. Brooke," asked the lady, anxiously, "what are our prospects? Have you found out anything?"

"Oh yes; I've had a conversation with an amiable Carlist who was on the point of blowing my brains out, and was only prevented by the unparalleled 'cheek' of the unworthy being who now addresses you."

"Did you really incur such danger?" asked Miss Talbot, in unfeigned anxiety.

"Danger? Oh, a trifle; but a miss is as good as a mile. I'm here now, safe and sound, but for two or three seconds you ran a great risk of making your journey alone. However, I made friends with them, and was entertained royally. Now, as to escape. I'm sorry to say that the country is swarming everywhere with these noble Carlists; that there is no such thing as law; that there are no magistrates, no police, no post-office, no telegraph, no railway trains, no newspapers, and no taxes except of an irregular kind."

"That is very bad," said Miss Talbot, slowly, and in a low, anxious voice.

"Oh yes," said Brooke, "but it's just as I feared.

"'There was an old man with a beard,'

"you know,

"'Who said, "It is just as I feared— Two owls and a wren And a cock and a hen Have all built their nests in my beard."'

"That's me. I told you so. Still, there's no need to despair. It's quite plain that we cannot travel by day without being discovered, so we shall have to try it by night. This will be all the better. So you must spend this day in meditation and prayer, and also in laying up a stock of bodily and mental strength. To-night we set forth, and we must move on all night long. May I ask if there is any place in particular to which you prefer going?"

"None whatever. I must leave myself altogether to you."

"So I suppose," said Brooke.

"But is there no danger in this place, Mr. Brooke?"

"Danger? None whatever. I can't explain to you how completely this is out of the way of every one, whether marauder or honest man. You may be perfectly at your case on that score. Will this place satisfy you?"

"Perfectly. But I should like very much to tell you, Mr. Brooke, how grateful I feel for all this trouble and—"

"Ah, now, Miss Talbot!" cried Brooke, averting his face, and holding up both hands, "don't—don't! Let's drop all that sort of thing. It's part of the mockery of civilization. Words generally count for nothing. Acts are all in all. What I ask of you is for you to gather up your strength so as to be able to foot it with me and not break down. But first of all, I must say I very much wish you had some costume a little less marked than that of an English lady. Now, if you could pass as a peasant-girl, or an old woman, or a goatherd's wife, or a vender of quack medicines, or anything humble and yet national, why—"

Miss Talbot shook her head with a mournful smile, and looked troubled.

"I've had an idea all day," said Brooke, "which I suppose there's no great harm in mentioning."

"What?"

"What do you say to disguising yourself as a priest?"

"A priest? How can I?"

"Well, with a dress like this of mine. It's very convenient—long, ample, hides everything—just the thing, in fact. You can slip it on over your present dress, and—there you are, transformed into a priest. I hope you're not proud."

"I'm sure I should be only too glad to disguise myself, but where can I get the dress?"

"Take this one."

"The one that you have?"

"Yes."

"But what will you do?"

"Do without."

"But that will expose you to danger."

"No it won't. It won't make the slightest difference. I'm only wearing this for the sake of variety. The fact is, you see, I found I was growing too volatile, and so I assumed a priest's dress, in the hope that it would give me greater sobriety and weight of character. I've been keeping it up for three days, and feel a little tired of it. So you may have it—a free gift—breviary and all, especially the breviary. Come—there's a fair offer."

"I really cannot make out," said Miss Talbot, with a laugh, "whether you are in jest or earnest."

"Oh, then take me in earnest," said Brooke, "and accept the offer. You see, it's your only chance of escape. You know old Billy Magee—

"'Old Billy Magee wore a flaxen wig, And a beard did his face surround, For the bailie came racing after he With a bill for fifty pound.'

"So what do you say to gracefully giving way to necessity?"

"If you really think that you will be running no risk—"

"No more than I've always been running until three days ago."

"Well, I shall be very glad indeed, and only too much obliged."

"That's an uncommonly sensible decision," said Brooke. "You see," said he, as he unbuttoned the priest's robe, "I've merely been wearing this over my usual dress, and you can do the same." As he spoke he drew off the robe. "You can slip it on," he continued, "as easy as wink, and you'll find it quite large enough every way."

And now Brooke stood divested of the priest's dress, revealing himself clothed in a suit of brown tweed—hunting-coat, knickerbockers, stockings, laced boots, etc. He then took from his coat pocket a travelling-cap with a visor, which he put upon his head.

"You can have the priest's hat too," he added, "and—But no, by Jove! I won't—no, I won't let you have the spectacles. You might wear them in case of need, though, for they're only plain glass. But hang it! I can't—I can't, and you sha'n't. Only fancy putting spectacles on the angel Gabriel!"

Meanwhile Miss Talbot had taken the priest's robe and had thrown it over her own dress. The clerical frock was of cloth, long enough to reach to her feet, and buttoned all the way from her chin down. Around the neck was a cape, which descended half-way to the knees. As she passed her arms through the sleeves she remarked that it would fit her admirably; and then taking the hat, she retired inside the tower, so as to adjust the outlines of her new costume in a more satisfactory manner than was possible before a spectator. At the door of the tower she turned.

"One thing will be against me," said she. "What shall I do about it?"

"What is that?"

"Why, my hair."

"Your hair!" repeated Brooke. "H'm—well, that is a puzzle!"

"It will interfere with anything like a real disguise, of course."

"Well, I suppose it would. In which case we can only hope not to come near enough to the enemy to be closely inspected."

"Had I not better cut it off?" said Miss Talbot.

"What!" exclaimed Brooke, with amazement in his face.

Miss Talbot repeated her question.

"Cut off your hair—that hair!" said Brooke. "What a horrible idea!"

"Will you cut it?"

"Never!" said Brooke, fervently.

"Shall I?"

Brooke drew a long breath and looked earnestly at her.

"Oh, don't ask me," said he, at length, in a dejected tone. "I'm floored! It's like throwing overboard a cargo of gold, and silver, and precious stones to lighten the ship. Yea, more—it's like the Russian woman who threw over her child to the wolves to make possible the escape of the rest of the family. But there are some who would prefer to be eaten by wolves rather than sacrifice the child."

"Well," said Miss Talbot, "your comparison of the child is a little too much; but if it comes to throwing the treasure overboard to save the ship, I shall not hesitate a moment."

Brooke made no reply, and Miss Talbot went into the tower.

Brooke then resumed his seat, and, looking thoughtfully into vacancy, sang in a low voice all to himself:

"Oh, a princess there was in the north countree, And her hair reached down below her knee; And lovers they gathered by thousands there, For love of the maid with the golden hair."



CHAPTER XII.

HOW BROOKE AND TALBOT TAKE TO FLIGHT.

Brooke was roused from his meditations by a light footstep close beside him. He looked up, and saw Miss Talbot standing before him in her new costume. As he looked he rose to his feet and gazed at her fixedly without a word.

The change was wonderful.

It was no longer a young lady that he saw—it was a young priest. The broad hat came down low upon the head, and beneath it there was a face full of sweet dignity and gentle grace—a face serene, and noble, and pure. Such a face Raffaelle loved to reproduce while portraying the Angel of the Visitation, where youth, and radiant beauty, and unsullied purity, and divinest grace all appear combined in one celestial visage.

Brooke looked for some time with the an intent gaze, and in utter silence.

"How do you think I look?" asked Miss Talbot.

"Look?" repeated Brooke. He hesitated as if at a loss, and then went on in a way that was peculiarly his own. "Look? Oh, first-rate—very well—very well indeed. In fact, I had no idea that you could transform yourself so completely. I believe I was on the point of saying something about a vision of angels, but I'll be commonplace. All I can say is, that if I were to meet such a priest in real life, I'd down on my knees at once, make a confession, and—No, I wouldn't; I'd try to become a priest myself, so as to be always somewhere near him. And if he were a monk, I'd join the same monastery; and if he were a missionary, I'd go with him to the uttermost ends of the earth; if the cannibals ate him up, I'd make them eat me too; and, in any event, I should feel that in such company I should be nearer heaven than anywhere else. For, you see, you've always lived in a serene atmosphere, where you have known nothing of the evil of the world, and so your face has on it the stamp of Heaven itself, which it first received, and which has never been effaced. So, you see, you're just the one to go about as a priest. Oh, it's a great advantage to be as you are, and to have that angelic face! Like the old man in the song:

"'Oh, he never got drunk and he never swore, And he never did violate the lor; And so we buried him underground, And the funeral-bell did merrily sound Ding! Dong! Dell!'"

Thus far Brooke had rattled on in a strange, dry fashion; but suddenly he stopped, and then exclaimed,

"Good Heavens!"

"What's the matter?" asked Miss Talbot, who had seemed much amused at all this nonsense.

"Why, what have you done with your hair?"

Miss Talbot raised her hat from her head, and looked at him. Again he looked at her in silence.

Yes, it was all gone! That glorious hair, which awhile ago had been folded in great masses round her head, was there no longer. She had cut it off! It was short now, like the hair of a young man, and hung loose in wavy curls over her forehead. Yet so far from her appearance being marred or disfigured by such a mutilation, the result was actually more becoming to her as she stood there in her new costume. Few could have made such a sacrifice without serious injury to their appearance; but in this case there was merely a change from one character to another, and all the beauty and all the subtle fascination still remained.

"I couldn't have believed it," said Brooke, at length.

"What?"

"Oh, well—several things. In the first place, I couldn't have believed that any living girl could have made the sacrifice. In the second place, I couldn't have believed that the one who had passed through such an ordeal could come forth more glorious than ever. But the sacrifice was too much. However, it's done. Nay—never shake your gory locks at me. Thou cans't not say I did it. But where is it all?"

"It? what?"

"As if you don't know! Why, the treasure that you threw overboard—the child that you flung to the wolves, Russian mother!"

"Oh, you mean the hair! Why, I left it in there."

She pointed carelessly to the tower. At this Brooke went over and entered it. He saw a mass of hair lying there on the stone floor, where she had carelessly thrown it after cutting it off. This he gathered up very carefully and even tenderly, picking up even small scattered locks of it. Then he rolled it all up into the smallest possible space, after which he bound it tight in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. He was, as usual, singing to himself snatches of old songs which expressed nothing in particular:

"The maiden she says to him, says she, Another man's wife I've got to be; So go thy ways across the sea, For all is over with you and me.'"

Which words had certainly no particular application to present circumstances.

When he came out again, Miss Talbot was seated on the tree in a meditative mood.

"I was just picking up the hair," said Brooke, in an indifferent tone. "If we were tracked here and pursued it might tell tales, and it would tell too much."

"Oh, how thoughtless of me!" said she. "But really I did intend to go back and throw it down into the torrent. You see, I was so anxious to know if my disguise was right, that I hurried out at once to show you."

"Oh, it's all the same. I've disposed of it better than you would have done."

"I shall try not to be so thoughtless again."

Brooke said nothing, but seated himself near her on the log.

"I'm sorry you don't smoke," said he, after a pause; "but I hope you don't object to my taking a small whiff now and then."

"Oh no," said Miss Talbot. "I like to see you smoking."

"Do you know," said Brooke, after he had again filled and lighted his inevitable pipe—"do you know, I think your character is almost perfect."

"Why, because I don't object to smoking?" asked Miss Talbot, with a smile.

"Well, I take that as one of the many straws which show how the wind blows. But do you really mean to tell me that you don't regret what you have done?"

"What, with my hair? What a question! Regret it? Not at all. It will grow again—in time. To use your own figure, when the sailor is struggling for life against the storm, he doesn't regret the treasure that he has flung overboard so as to lighten the ship. And do you think that I am so weak as to hesitate for a moment when your safety as well as my own is concerned? For, you see, I have to remember that while I am with you, you too are in danger. So, no hesitation is possible. How could I have the heart to ask you to help me, if I persisted in keeping up any kind of dress that might endanger both of us?"

Brooke made no reply, but sat puffing out great clouds of smoke. After some lapse of time he opened his mouth to speak.

"I wish you had heavier boots," said he.

"Yes," said Miss Talbot, "my boots are my weak point. But, you see, I never anticipated a walk of twenty or thirty miles. However, my dress is long, and perhaps my feet will not be noticed."

"Oh, it isn't the fear of their being noticed, but the danger that they may give way altogether in our rough walk, and leave you barefoot among the rocks."

"Well, if I find them giving way, I shall wrap rags around them before they go to pieces altogether."

After a further silence Brooke spoke again.

"There's one thing more," said he, "that may be mentioned. We may make good our escape to-night, as I hope, but then—we may not. To provide against occurrences of all sorts, it's as well to adopt certain fixed characters and act them out. You are a priest—remember that; never forget it. You have that breviary, which you will do well to look at from time to time. There's mighty good reading in that breviary, though I'm sorry to say I never could find it; but no doubt you'll do more justice to it than I did, especially if you understand Latin, which I'm afraid you don't. But, you see, it won't do for me to call you 'Miss Talbot.' We might be captured by fellows who understand English, and they would at once take the hint. And so suppose I drop the 'Miss,' and call you simply 'Talbot?'"

"That's a very good suggestion," said Miss Talbot. "The name will be my own, and familiar, and better than any strange name or title which you might invent. Oh yes, by all means drop the 'Miss.'"

"You will understand, of course," said Brooke, anxiously, "that in this proposal there is no disrespect, no attempt at undue familiarity, no—"

"Surely, surely," said Miss Talbot, earnestly, "it's hardly necessary to say all that. If you adopt that tone, I shall have to begin and tell you how deeply grateful I am, how much I owe you, how I long to do something to—"

"Oh! well. Come, now! if you go on in that way, I am shut up at once."

He relapsed into silence. After a few minutes he spoke again.

"Talbot," said he, in a strange tone, much softer than his usual voice.

"Well?" said Miss Talbot, gently.

"As I have dropped the 'Miss,' have you any objections to drop the 'Mister,' and address me by the simple and unconventional name of 'Brooke?' You see, it's very important for us, in our circumstances, to cultivate this seeming familiarity. If you were really a young priest, and I were really your friend and travelling companion, we should address one another in this simple fashion."

"I have no objection whatever," said Miss Talbot, "and I do not see why you should take such pains to explain. It is enough for you to ask. Whatever you say I will do."

"Say 'Brooke,' then."

"Brooke," said Miss Talbot, with a little shyness.

"And now, Talbot, I intend to use your surname only in speaking to you, and I hope that you will do the same with me. This is merely for practice."

"Certainly, Brooke."

The name came a little awkwardly at first, but after a little further conversation this difficulty passed away, and the two addressed one another quite naturally in this simple fashion. And now, as Brooke has chosen this name for Miss Talbot, I also will drop the "Miss," and call her henceforth simply "Talbot."

Brooke made Talbot lie down all the rest of the day, so as to sleep, if possible, and, at any rate, to lay up a good stock of strength for the formidable work of the approaching night. With her usual considerateness and docility, Talbot obeyed; and although she did not sleep, she certainly obtained an amount of rest of which she stood in great need.

At length the evening came, and the two ate their repast, after which Brooke secreted the remainder of the provisions in the tower by way of precaution. It was not necessary, he said, to carry that load, and if they were forced to return it would be there for their use.

They started a little after sunset. An hour's walk brought them to the road, at the spot where they had first met, after which they turned toward the place where Brooke had left the train on the previous day. Their pace was a moderate one, for the whole night was before them, and Brooke was anxious to save Talbot's strength as much as possible.

For about an hour more they walked along, until they came to where the country was more open. The moon was shining brightly, and thus far there had been no signs of life. But at this point there came up sounds from the road before them which were not a little alarming. Brooke laid himself upon the ground, and listened for some time.

"People are approaching," said he. "There is quite a large crowd. They must be Carlists. It will be dangerous for us to go on any farther. It will be better to hide here until they pass."

"Very well," said Talbot. "I quite agree with you. I should hate to go back again."

There was on their right, not far from the road, an old windmill, which stood upon a gently rising ground, and was quite a conspicuous object. This caught the eye of Brooke as he looked all around.

"There," said he, "is the place for us. These fellows seem to be on the march. They will soon pass by this and be gone. Let us hide in the old mill."

Talbot at once assented. They then left the road and crossed the fields. In a short time they reached the mill. It was deserted, and the machinery was out of order, but otherwise it was in good preservation. The door was open, and they entered. Having once obtained this concealment, they stood in the door-way anxiously watching. At length they saw a crowd of men come up along the road, and these they regarded with quick-beating hearts.

"Brooke," said Talbot, in a whisper.

"What?"

"What shall we do if they come here?"

"That's a solemn question," said Brooke. "We ought to have something to fall back on. Wait."

He went away for a few minutes, and then returned. As he came back to the door Talbot pressed his arm and pointed. Brooke looked out.

To his horror the whole band had stopped, and some of them were facing toward the mill as though about to approach it.

"What a mistake we've made!" said Brooke.

"They're coming here!" said Talbot, in a thrilling whisper. "What can we do? Can we fly?"

"No," said Brooke; "they'll see us. We have only one hope. There's a ladder here, and we can climb up into the loft. Come."

Taking Talbot's hand, Brooke led her to the ladder, and they climbed up into the loft, where they sat listening.

Talbot's anticipation was too true. The band approached the mill, and soon the two fugitives heard them all around.



CHAPTER XIII.

BROOKE AND TALBOT MAKE SEVERAL NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

For some time the two fugitives remained motionless and listened. There seemed to be a large number of men below, of whom a few were inside the mill, but the greater part remained outside. These kept up an incessant jabber; but it was of a discordant character, some talking about getting ready a supper, some about making a fire, some about forage, while at times a word would be dropped which seemed to indicate that they were in pursuit of fugitives. Nothing more definite than this could be learned.

Brooke, however, had been gradually creeping to one side of the mill, where there was a window, while Talbot followed as noiselessly as possible, until they both were able from their concealment to look out upon the scene below, which was in no way calculated to reassure them. They saw a crowd of men, about a hundred in number, who looked very much to Brooke like the train-stoppers of the day before. Their arms were piled, and they themselves were dispersed about, engaged in various occupations; some eating, some drinking, some smoking, while from them all a confused hubbub arose.

Half a dozen ill-looking fellows came toward the door of the mill.

"A fire!" said one. "Let's burn down the old mill. There's wood enough in it."

"Ay," said another, "wood enough for a hundred fires."

A shout of applause greeted this proposal, but the hearers above felt their hearts quail with horror. Talbot laid her hand on Brooke's arm. Brooke, to reassure her, took her hand in his and pressed it gently, and felt it cold and tremulous. He drew her nearer to him, and whispered softly in her ear,

"Don't be alarmed. At the worst, we can give ourselves up. Trust to me."

Talbot drew a long breath, and made a desperate effort to master her fears; but the scene below grew more and more terrible. The wild shout of approbation which followed the proposal to bum the mill was caught up by one after another, till at last the whole band was filled with that one idea. A dozen men rushed inside, and began to hammer, and tear, and pull at the flooring and other parts of the wood-work, while others busied themselves with preparing splints with which to kindle the fire.

"Brooke," whispered Talbot, in a tremulous voice—"oh, Brooke, let us go down."

"Wait—not yet," said Brooke, on whose brow cold drops of perspiration were already standing. "Wait. Let us see what they will do."

Talbot drew back with a shudder.

"The mill is of stone," said Brooke. "They can't burn it."

"But all the inside is of wood," said Talbot—"the floors, the doors, the machinery, the beams."

Brooke was silent, and watched the preparations outside. These grew more and more menacing. A great pile of wood was soon collected, which grew rapidly to more formidable proportions. If these prisoners hoped for life, they must leave their present hiding-place, and soon, too; for soon—ah, too soon, if that pile were once kindled—the flames would pour in, and burn all the inner wood-work, even if the walls were of stone.

At this moment a man came hurrying forward and burst in among the crowd.

"What's the meaning of all this nonsense?" he asked, in a stern voice.

"Why, we're burning the mill," said one of the most active of the party.

"Fools!" cried the other, "are you mad? It will attract attention. We shall be seen—perhaps attacked."

"Pooh!" said the man, impudently, "what of that? That's all the better."

The other laid his hand upon his sword, and looked as though he was about to use it; but a wild outcry burst forth from all the crowd, and with an impatient gesture he turned away. By his dress, which was the only uniform visible, and also by his bearing, he seemed to be the captain of the band, yet his authority did not seem to receive any very strong recognition. Still, the sight of this uniform was of itself encouraging to Brooke, who now at once decided upon the course which he should adopt. There was no longer time to hesitate. Already the match was struck, the next moment the flame would be touched to the kindling, and the fires would blaze up.

So Brooke called in a loud voice,

"Stop! stop! till we come down!"

At this cry they all looked up in amazement. The match dropped from the hand of the man who held it, and several of the men sprang to their arms.

"Who goes there?" cried the one who seemed to be the captain.

"Friends," said Brooke; "we'll come down."

Then turning to Talbot, he whispered:

"Now, Talbot, is the time to show the stuff you're made of. Courage, my boy! courage! Remember, Talbot, you're not a girl now—not a weak girl, but you're a boy—and an English boy! Remember that, my lad, for now your life and mine too depend upon you!"

"Don't fear for me," said Talbot, firmly.

"Good!" said Brooke. "Now follow me, and be as cool as a clock, even if you feel the muzzle of a pistol against your forehead."

With these cheerful words Brooke descended and Talbot followed. The ladder had not been removed, for the simple reason that it consisted of slats nailed against two of the principal beams, too solid even for Samson himself to shake. On reaching the lower story they hurried out at once, and the gang stood collected together awaiting them—a grim and grisly throng. Among them, the man whom Brooke had taken for their captain was now their spokesman.

"Who are you?" he asked, rudely, after a hasty glance at each.

Brooke could not now adopt the tone which had been so effective in the morning, for his gown was off, and he could no longer be the Cure of Santa Cruz. He kept his coolness, however, and answered in an off-hand manner.

"Oh, it's all right; we're friends. I'll show you our papers."

"All right?" said the other, with a laugh. "That's good too!"

At this all the crowd around laughed jeeringly.

"I belong to the good cause," said Brooke. "I'm a loyal subject of His Majesty. Viva el Rey!"

He expected some response to this loyal sentiment, but the actual result was simply appalling. The captain looked at him, and then at Talbot, with a cruel stare.

"Ah!" said he. "I thought so. Boys," he continued, turning to his men, "we're in luck. We'll get something out of these devils. They're part of the band. They can put us on the track."

This remark was greeted with a shout of applause.

"Allow me to inform you, senor," said the captain to the unfortunate Brooke, "that you have made a slight mistake. You are not our friends, but our enemies. We are not Carlists, but Republicans. I am Captain Lopez, of the Fourteenth Regiment, and have been detailed with these brave fellows on a special mission. You are able to give us useful information; but if you refuse to give it you shall both be shot."

In spite of the terrible mistake which he had made, Brooke kept his coolness and his presence of mind admirably.

"I'm very glad to hear it," said he to Lopez. "The fact is, I thought you were Carlists, and so I said that I was one too—as any one would do. But I'm not a Carlist; I'm a Republican."

Lopez, at this, gave utterance to a derisive laugh.

"Oh yes," he said, "of course, you are anything we please. And if we should turn out, after all, to be Carlists, you would swear that you are a Carlist again. Doesn't it strike you, senor, that you are trifling with us?"

"I assure you, Captain Lopez," said Brooke, "that I'm not a Carlist, for I'm not a Spaniard."

"You may not be a Spaniard, yet still be a devoted Carlist."

"Yes, but I'm not. I assure you that I'm a Republican. Shall I prove it to you and to all these gentlemen?"

"Try it," sneered Lopez.

"I'm an American," said Brooke.

"An American," repeated Lopez, bitterly. "Better for you to be a Carlist than that. Is it not enough for you Americans to intermeddle with our affairs in Cuba, and help our rebels there, but must you also come to help our rebels here? But come—what is your business here? Let's see what new pretence you have to offer."

"I am a traveller."

"Yes, I suppose so," sneered Lopez. "And who is this other?"

"He is a young priest."

"A young priest? Ah! Then, senor, let me inform you that as Spaniards we hate all Americans, and as Republicans we hate all priests. Spain has had too much of both. Americans are her worst enemies outside and priests inside. Down with all Americans and priests!"

The echo to this sentiment came in a shout from all the followers of Lopez,

"Down with all Americans and priests!"

With this cry a hundred fierce faces surrounded them, and glared at them with fiery eyes. It seemed as though their last hour had come. The crowd pressed closer, and clamored for their immediate destruction. The only thing that held them back was the attitude of Brooke, who stood perfectly cool and tranquil, with his eyes fixed on Lopez, a good-natured smile on his face, and his hands carelessly in his pockets. Close beside him stood Talbot, pale, it is true, but with a calm exterior that showed not one trace of fear. Brooke did not see her, and did not venture to look at her, but he felt that she was as firm as a rock. Had they faltered in the slightest degree, the storm must have burst; but as it was, the calmness of these two disarmed the fury of the mob, and their fierce passion died away.

"Captain Lopez," said Brooke, in a quiet and friendly tone, "you may have reason to hate my country, but I assure you that you have absolutely no cause for complaint against me and my friend. We are simple travellers who have been interrupted on our journey, and are now trying to get to the nearest railway station so as to resume it as soon as possible."

"How did you get here?" asked Lopez, after a pause, in which he again scrutinized severely the two prisoners.

Brooke had anticipated this question, and had made up his mind as to his answer. It was his intention to identify himself with Talbot, and speak as though he had all along been travelling with "the young priest."

"Our train stopped," said he, "and we took the diligence over this road yesterday. We were stopped again, captured and robbed by Carlists, and we have escaped from them, and are now trying to get back."

"Was your train stopped by Carlists?"

"No; the diligence."

"Where did the Carlists go?"

"I have no idea."

"Where did you come from last?"

"Barcelona."

"Where are you going now?"

"To England," said Brooke; "and finally." he added, "allow me to show you this, which I am sure will establish my character in your eyes."

With these words he drew forth a paper and handed it to Lopez. The latter took it, and one of the men lighted a bit of wood which served as a torch, after which Lopez read the following:

"_Head-quarters, Vittoria, May 10th. 1873.

"This is to certify that the bearer of this is an American citizen named Raleigh Brooke, and is correspondent of a New York journal. He has permission to traverse our lines in pursuit of his business. CONCHA_."

Lopez read it over a second time.

"A newspaper correspondent!" said he. "H'm! That means a spy." He handed it back again to Brooke, who replaced it in his pocket. "I'll think it over," continued Lopez. "I'll examine you both to-morrow and inspect your papers. I'm too tired now. You may both go inside again where you were hiding before. We won't burn you up."

At these last words the whole gang burst into a jeering laugh that foreboded something so horrible that the stout heart of Brooke quailed within him, as, followed by Talbot, he once more entered the old mill.



CHAPTER XIV.

HOW THE ANXIOUS RUSSELL SEEKS TO CONCEAL A TREASURE.

The Russell party, on reaching the castle, were all conducted inside, where they found themselves in an arched hall which has already been described. Traversing this, they ascended the massive stairway at the end, and came to another large hall immediately above the lower one. This had once been the grand banqueting hall of the castle, and was less rough and severe in its appearance than other parts; for while the walls elsewhere showed the unfinished faces of the rude blocks of stone, here there was an effort after something like ornament; yet this was so slight that even here the general air was still one of severe and austere graudeur, as if there had been wrought out in this stone-work the mind of the stern Goth who reared it, who held it, not for a home, but rather for a fortress, whence he could dominate the surrounding country.

If Harry had cherished any hope of prolonging his acquaintance with Katie he was now destined to be disappointed; for on reaching this upper hall they were informed that they would have to be separated—the men to go in one direction and the women in another. This arrangement was partly for the comfort of both parties, but still more for their safe-keeping, since escape would thus be far more difficult. Accordingly the ladies were taken away by some female attendants; while Russell, in company with Harry, was taken to their quarters on the opposite side of the great hall.

Here they found themselves in an apartment which was very long, very wide, and very lofty. The roof was arched, and all the stones were of cyclopean dimensions. At one end there was an immense fireplace. On either side there were narrow windows, which on one side looked down on the front yard inside the wall, while on the other they commanded a view of one of the inner courtyards. Harry, on his first entrance into the room, walked about surveying the place, and noting these particulars by the lurid glow of the torches.

This first survey assured him that, as far as appearances went, there was scarcely any possibility of escape. The walls were too strong to be penetrated in any way, and the windows were too narrow for any one to pass through. In fact, they were slits rather than windows. Moreover, even if it had been possible for any one to pass through the windows, the ground below was too far away to be reached without some means of descent. Finally, there were the armed men outside, and the extreme wall, which was too lofty to be scaled. On the whole, the prospect was highly unsatisfactory, and Hurry turned away from this first survey with a feeling of mild dejection. There was scarcely anything in the room which deserved the name of furniture. In one corner there was a rude structure with straw on it, which was intended for a bed. Opposite this there was a ponderous oaken bench, and upon this old Russell seated himself wearily. Here he sat, and as Harry completed his survey of the apartment, his eyes rested upon his unfortunate companion as he sat there, the picture of terror, despondency, and misery. Harry felt an involuntary pity for the man; and as his own flow of spirits was unfailing, he set himself to work to try and cheer him.

"Well," said he, "this is rather a dismal place, Russell; but, after all, it's better than being put in a vault underground."

"It's pup-precious kik-kik-cold," said Russell, his teeth chattering, partly from cold and partly from terror. "This'll bring on an attack of rheumatiz—that's what it's going to do. Oh, I know it!"

"Well, it a little chilly, that's a fact," said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "It's a pity we couldn't use that fireplace. But what a tremendous fireplace it is! Why, it's as big as a barn. What do you say to our amusing ourselves by starting a fire? It would be great fun."

"But we've gig-gig-got no fuel," said Russell, with a shiver.

"Fuel? Why, let's cut up that big bench."

"What with?"

"Why, with my pocket-knife, of course. We could whittle enough chips off it to make a good big fire, and still have enough left for a bench. In fact, we could get enough fuel off that for a dozen fires. Why, man, there must be at least a cord of wood in that bench. Whittling's rather slow work, it's true, but in a place like this it'll be an occupation, and that's something. Prisoners go mad unless they have something to do; and so, just to save myself from madness, I mean to go in for fuel—unless you can think of something else that's better."

Rattling out this in his usual lively fashion, Harry went to the bench, and began a solemn examination of it, with a view toward whittling it up into firewood. Russell did not move, but regarded Harry with the same silent misery in his face. At last he spoke:

"What did-did-do you think they're a-going to did-did-do?"

"Who?" asked Harry.

"Why, these people—that kik-kik-captured us."

"These Carlists? Well, I don't know—seems to me they want to make some money out of us."

"Why did they let all the Spaniards go and kik-kik-capture us?"

"Oh, well, they think as we're English we'll probably have more money about us than their own countrymen, and be safer plunder also."

"Did-did-do you think they'll go so far as to pip-pup-plunder us?" asked Russell, in a voice of horror.

"Haven't a doubt of it."

"Oh Lord!" groaned the other.

"What's the matter?"

Russell gave a fresh groan.

"This kik kik-cursed kik-kik-country!" he at length ejaculated.

"Oh, well," said Harry, "it isn't the country, it's the people."

"Do you think they're really Kik-kik-Carlists?"

"Well, yes. I don't see any reason why they shouldn't be."

"I was thinking that they might be bub-bub-bandits."

"Well, there isn't any very great difference between the two, so far as we are concerned."

"But isn't there any law among the Kik-kik-Carlists? Can't we appeal to Did-did-Don Carlos?"

"Oh yes, of course—if we could only get at him, and if he could only get at us; but these two things are just what can't be done. And so I'm afraid we'll have to make up our minds to pay the piper."

At this Russell again gave a heavy groan.

"Don't be alarmed," said Hurry, in a soothing tone. "We can beat them down."

"No," moaned Russell, "we can't do anything. And I've got too much about me altogether."

"You haven't carried any large sum of money with you, surely?" cried Harry. "Why, man, you're mad!"

"But I didn't think there'd be any danger on the railway," said Russell.

"If your money is in bills of exchange you'll be right enough," said Harry.

Russell shook his head.

"No," said he, "it's worse than that."

"How?"

"My money is in bub-bub-bonds—Spanish bub-bub-bonds."

"Bonds!" repeated Harry.

"Yes," groaned Russell—"kik-kik-coupon bub-bub-bonds."

"Coupon bonds! Why, man, what in Heaven's name are you doing with coupon bonds in this country?"

"Why, they're Spanish bonds, and I was taking them out of the country to England."

"Whew!" whistled Harry. "In how much?"

"Thirty thousand pounds!" wailed Russell, in a voice of despair.

Another prolonged whistle was the result of this information.

"It's no use making it a secret to you," continued Russell. "I'll be searched, I suppose, and the bonds'll be taken."

"I'll tell you what to do," said Harry: "let me take care of them."

Russell shook his head.

"N-no; you'll be searched too. They'll be no safer."

"Well, then, hide them in this room somewhere."

"I don't know where to hide them," said Russell, dolefully; "besides, we may be taken to another room, and so it's no use hiding them here. I've been thinking of sewing them up inside the lining of my coat, only I haven't any needle and thread to sew with. Oh, if Mrs. Russell were here! I didn't think of this. I'd get her to stitch them inside my coat to-night. And now I don't know what to do. If it weren't for these bonds I should feel safe enough. But the amount is so e-normous!"

"Are they registered?"

"Oh no. I don't believe they register bonds in this miserable country, or do anything but steal them," groaned Russell. "I suppose they'll overhaul us all to-morrow."

"Very likely."

"Can you think of any way by which I can hide these bonds?"

Harry shook his head. At the same moment there occurred to him what Ashby had told him about certain Spanish bonds. If Ashby was right, then this must be the very money which belonged to Katie, and which, according to Ashby, Russell was trying to get hold of for himself. From this point of view it suddenly assumed an immense interest in his eyes, and drove away the thought of every other thing. Even the fire was now forgotten, and the bench was not desecrated by the knife.

"See here; I'll tell you what to do," said Harry, thoughtfully and earnestly. "The very worst thing that you can do is to carry all that money about with you, on your own person, mind that. You'll be searched, of course. To stitch them in your clothes is absurd. These people will examine every square inch of all your clothes, including your shirt-collar, your pocket-handkerchief, your silk hat, and your boots. They'd find the smallest fragment of a bit of paper, even if you had it hidden inside your bootlaces. Now, I'll tell you what you'll have to do. You'll have to get rid of that money of yours."

"Bub-bub-bub-but how?" stammered Russell, in fresh consternation.

"How? Why, hide it."

"Where?"

"Somewhere about here—and soon too—before you go to sleep."

"But suppose I am tit-tit-taken away, and don't come back again?"

"Well, in that case your only hope is to confide in me, and then if you are taken way I shall perhaps be left. It's not likely that both of us will be taken away from here. We shall perhaps be separated, and one will be left behind. In that case the one who is left can watch over the treasure. Besides, in case we should escape we shall know where it is, and we may be able to get the government to send a body of men here to help us recover it."

"Oh yes—the government!" said Russell, bitterly. "I know the government here—only too well. The government will send a body of men here to help us recover it, and then—why, then of course they'll keep it all for themselves, every farthing. Yes, sir, that's the Spanish style—every farthing. No; don't talk to me about the government. I'm bound to hold on to this, and not trust to any of your beggarly Spanish governments."

"But if you hold on to it you'll be sure to lose it," said Harry, in great impatience.

"I don't believe they'll examine me at all," said Russell, suddenly changing his tone.

"They will," persisted Harry, "as sure as you're alive, and that too before this time to-morrow. In that case you'll lose every penny of the thirty thousand pounds."

(And of course, thought Harry, it'll be poor little Katie's loss; and all through the infernal obstinacy of this pig-headed tailor!)

"Oh, well. I'll think it over," said Russell, cautiously avoiding any further discussion.

"You won't have much time for that," urged Harry.

"Oh yes, I will—plenty of time. I'll have all night, for I won't sleep a wink, and I shall have nothing else to do but to think over this."

This was droned out in a tone of utter despair.

Harry spent some more time in trying to change Russell's mind, but in vain; and at length he gave up, thinking that he would have a better chance in the morning. Besides, he was beginning to feel sleepy, and his arguments were growing somewhat incoherent; so he flung himself on the rude couch just as he was, "all standing," and in a few minutes was sound asleep.

Russell sat motionless for some time, until at length the heavy breathing of his companion showed that he was asleep. Upon this he rose, and went on tiptoe softly over to Harry's bed, and tried in various ways to see whether the sleep was false or real. Having assured himself that it was real, he took up the torch and began to survey the apartment more closely. Already, while talking with Harry, his eyes had narrowly scanned every corner of the room, and no place had appeared which could afford the slightest chance of concealment. From the very first he had thought of the stone pavement of the floor; but now, on examination, this proved to be far too ponderous to be moved by any force that he could command. Thus, after having traversed the whole room, he reached the fireplace.

This, as has been said, was of gigantic dimensions, being intended to hold enough wood to heat this vast apartment. Here among the mountains, inside this stone castle, the cold was sometimes severe, and the builders of the castle had in this way made provision for the comfort of its occupants. To this chimney Russell now turned his attention, in the hope that something might present itself here which could be used as a place of concealment. So he walked stealthily and noiselessly toward it, and on reaching it stood surveying its huge dimensions in great astonishment. Such chimneys may still be seen in many an old castle or palace in the north of Europe, though less frequent in the castles of Spain. This one was deep and wide and high, and our friend Russell could easily enter it without stooping.

He entered thus the great fireplace and looked around, holding his torch so as to light up the interior. Below, there was the pavement of stone, which seemed solid and immovable. Above, the chimney arose far on high, and through the wide opening the sky overhead was plainly visible, with its glittering stars.

Now, as Russell stood peering about, he noticed something in the construction of the chimney which struck him as rather peculiar, and this was several stones on the left side, which projected from the wall and were placed one above another. The arrangement was so singular that it at once arrested his attention, and being in search of a hiding-place for his treasure, he could not avoid examining it further with keener interest. This arrangement of the stones one above another was suggestive of climbing. They seemed intended for steps, and he therefore peered upward more curiously, to see how far these steps continued and what was the end. Looking thus upward, he noticed on one side what seemed like a niche in the chimney wall. It was so formed that it was not visible unless one were standing deep inside the chimney and looking up for it, and it seemed to be deep and spacious. No sooner had he caught sight of this niche than he determined to investigate it farther. For a few moments he paused to see whether Harry was still asleep or not, and then, being satisfied on this point, he began to climb up. So nicely were the stones adjusted that this was easy even to an inactive and heavy man like him, and after ascending three steps ho stood and peered into the niche. It seemed quite deep. He could not see any end to it or any terminating wall. What the design of it was he could not imagine. He saw, however, that it afforded an admirable place of concealment for his treasure, and he determined at once to avail himself of it. Here he thought it would be secure from discovery, and it might remain here undetected and unharmed for any length of time. As for fire, it was not likely that the chimney was ever used; but even if it were, there was scarcely any possibility that the flames could affect anything in this deep niche.