"Good boy!" said Brooke, in a harsh, husky voice. After which, he cleared his throat violently, but said nothing further for a while.

"You see, Talbot, lad," said he, at last, "it is this: I have a feeling that I can't get rid of, and I've had it ever since we left the tower. The feeling is this—that you are my younger brother. You don't understand. I'll tell you about him."

"Your younger brother!" said Talbot, in a low voice, soft and unutterably sweet. Then a little sigh followed, and she added: "And that I will try to be to you, Brooke, until this danger is over. But you must bear with me, and not be angry if I turn out sometimes to be a coward."

"A coward?" said Brooke. "Come, I like that. Why, Talbot, boy though you are, there is enough stuff in you to fit out half a dozen men. You're a Talbot, to begin with; and, in addition to that, you are that sort of a person that you would let yourself be torn in pieces for the sake of a comrade."

"I'm glad you think that of me," said Talbot, gently.

"I was going to tell you about my younger brother," said Brooke. "We were in Cuba together, where the fighting was—just such a country as this—and I was trying to work my way along between the two forces so as to get to Matanzas. The danger was frightful. Neither side gave any quarter. It was a war of savages, and my chief anxiety was for poor Otto. But you never saw any one pluckier than he was—as cool, as calm, as fearless as though he was in a parlor. So we went for weeks."

"And what became of him?" asked Talbot, as Brooke paused.

"We escaped," said he, "and reached Matanzas—but there—the poor boy—died. So you see, Talbot, since you have joined me my memory goes back to those Cuban days; and whenever I say to you 'Talbot, lad,' it seems as though I am speaking to my dear lost Otto. And here let me say, Talbot, that if I ever seem familiar, you must not think it want of respect; think rather that I am mistaking you for Otto, and forgive it."

"Do not say that," said Talbot. "I should prefer to have you think of me as 'Otto,' and even call me 'Otto.'"

"No, Talbot, boy, you have your own name, and by that I will call you."

"It is strange, Brooke," said Talbot. "We have only known one another for a short time, but it seems as though we had been friends for a lifetime. I suppose this is owing to the feeling of comradeship which has sprung up between us—or perhaps because you think of me as your younger brother. For my part, I feel as though we two were comrades, like soldiers that we read of, only my part in the business will be a miserable one, I fear. We are brothers in arms, Brooke, aren't we?"

"Brothers in arms," said Brooke, in a soft, gentle tone; "yes, Talbot, lad, that's exactly what we are. Yes, comrade, we have a fight before us, and only each other to rely on."

"In our family," said Talbot, "there is a cimeter which is an heirloom. It was brought from the East during the Crusades by an ancestor. While there, he was wounded and taken prisoner by a Saracen emir named Hayreddin. This Saracen treated him with chivalrous generosity, and a warm friendship sprung up between them. They exchanged arms, the Saracen taking Talbot's sword, while Talbot took Hayreddin's cimeter. Hayreddin set Talbot free. Afterward he himself was taken prisoner, and Talbot was fortunate enough to procure his freedom. The cimeter is the very one which my ancestor brought back from the Holy Land."

"You and I," said Brooke, in a cheery tone, "will be Talbot and Hayreddin. You are the Christian knight, and I am the heathen. It's a pity we can't exchange arms."

"Yes, we can't very well do that."

"We can exchange something at any rate, comrade," said Brooke. "You have my priest's dress—let me have something of yours by way of exchange."

"But what can I give?" said Talbot.

"Anything, from a needle to a needle-gun. It would be better if portable—an old ribbon, a portable pincushion, a bootlace."

"I have something," said Talbot, suddenly, "if you will take it, Brooke; but perhaps you will think it only a bother."

"No, Talbot, lad, brother—brother in arms, and comrade of mine!—nothing that you can give shall be regarded as other than a comrade's pledge."

Talbot withdrew her hand, which Brooke had been holding all this time.

"Here is something," said she. "It will do better than anything else."

"What is it?" asked Brooke, who could not see in the gloom what it was that she offered.

"A ring," said Talbot, in a voice that had sunk to a whisper.

"A ring," repeated Brooke. "Is it your ring, Talbot? Then put it on my finger with your own hands, comrade, and I swear to you by a soldier's word that it shall never leave me, either in life or death."

Talbot made no reply, but put the ring, which she had detached from her own finger, upon the little finger of Brooke's left hand.

Not a word was said by either, and there was now a long silence, which was finally broken by Brooke.

"Talbot," said he, "don't you think you can sleep a little?"

"I'll try."

"Do. If you could only sleep a little, I should feel very glad indeed."

"I'll try," said Talbot again, "and you must not suppose that I am awake."

Talbot now drew off for a little distance, while Brooke remained as before, and was left to his own meditations. All was still within, and outside the sounds gradually lessened, until at length they were heard no more. Slowly the time passed, and to Brooke it had never in his life seemed so long. Not a sound escaped from Talbot. Was she asleep?

"Talbot, lad!" said Brooke, in a low voice.

"Well, Brooke," was the gentle reply.

"Have you been asleep?"

"Oh—well—a little."

"No, Talbot," said Brooke, "you have not been asleep. And you say that you were merely to make it pleasant for me. You are full of anguish, Talbot, but you keep up a cheerful tone so as not to add to my burdens. You see I know it all, Talbot, and understand you thoroughly, so there need not be any further dissimulation."

"Brooke," said Talbot, "you are feverish from anxiety, and fanciful. Be yourself. Sing one of your droll songs. Talk nonsense. If you go on in this mournful strain, you will make me break down utterly."

At this Brooke drew a long breath.

"Forgive me, Talbot," he said. "I really don't know what has come over me. If I were alone I could sleep as sound as a top, but anxiety about another is a different thing. Still, you are right, and I mean to turn the conversation to some other subject. A song, did you say? Very well. By-the-bye, did you ever hear this?

"'Oh, Jenny Jones was a lovely gal, And her mother worked a mangle; She fell in love with a fine yonng lad, Who played on the triangle.'"

Brooke hummed this, and then stopped.

"I never heard it before," said Talbot. "Sing the rest. Now you are yourself again.

Whatever you feel, Brooke, don't speak of it, but laugh, and jest, and sing old scraps of songs."

"I won't," said Brooke. "I'll sing nothing more, and I'll say nothing more."

Talbot made no reply.

Brooke was true to his resolution, and said not another word. Talbot was as silent as he. Each had thoughts which were all-engrossing. Neither spoke, but each knew perfectly well that the other was wide awake, and full of care.

Thus the night passed away, with its long, long hours. It seemed interminable; but at length it came to an end, as all nights must, however long. The dawn came, and the two could see each other. Each sat propped up against the wall. Neither one spoke for a long time, until it was broad day, when Brooke, who had been watching Talbot's face until it grew fully revealed, broke the silence with a slight cough. Talbot turned and smiled.

"Good-morning," said Brooke. "We seem to be having quite a spell of weather. Quite a fine view from these windows. You haven't been out yet, I suppose?"

"Not yet," said Talbot.

"Well," said Brooke, "we must take a walk after breakfast:

"'Oh, if I was the owner of London town, I'd buy my love a scarlet gown— A gown of scarlet bombazine, And away we'd travel to Gretna Green.'"

"Have you ever been there?" asked Talbot, trying to assume Brooke's own careless tone.

"Yes, Talbot; of course I have. Every American makes a pilgrimage there when he visits England. As the poet says:

"'I have been there, and still would go; 'Tis like a little heaven below.'

Talbot!"

Brooke's voice changed.

"Well, Brooke."

"Can you be sure of yourself this day? Can you stand it?"

"Yes, Brooke."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Brooke."

"Oh, Talbot, Talbot! don't shrink! Oh, Talbot, don't falter! For my sake, don't let me see you falter, Talbot, or I shall break down. Alone I could let myself be tortured to death by Comanches, and I'd sing my death-song as bravely as Mullins Bryan; but mark this, Talbot: if you break down, if you even falter, I'm a lost, ruined, and dishonored man. Will you remember that, Talbot?"

As he spoke these words, Brooke's voice had a thrill in it that Talbot had never heard before.

"Brooke," said she, "I will be firm. Rather than show any weakness, I will die."

"That's very good," said Brooke. "Your hand on it, Talbot."

She held out her hand. He pressed it with a convulsive grasp.

"You will not forget?" he asked, eagerly.

"I cannot forget," she answered, simply.

"Good lad!" said Brooke. He dropped her hand, and at once resumed his careless manner. "And now," said he, "we can continue our music:

"'For there the historic blacksmith stands—'

Gretna Green, you know—

"'And hammers away at the marriage bands.'

Only he don't do so now, you know, for he's dead and gone, and they've got new marriage laws."

Not long after this a man came up with a flask of wine and some rolls. Brooke took them from him and brought them over.

"Talbot," said he, "you don't want to eat—in fact, at this moment you hate food. But while I am with you I'm your master, and I now command you to eat. Moreover, let me add that it is necessary to eat, or else you may grow faint; and then, when there comes a chance of escape, you won't be able to walk, and I shall have to carry you, don't you see? And now won't you eat, just for the sake of saving me from unnecessary fatigue?"

"I will eat if you will," said Talbot.

"Eat!" exclaimed Brooke. "What! I eat? Oh, well, I don't mind. For that matter, I'd just as soon eat a pair of boots as not."

He broke off a fragment of bread and ate it. Talbot did the same, and thus both forced themselves to eat, and each did this for the sake of the other.

They said nothing while thus forcing themselves to eat. The thought that was present to each was enough to occupy the mind, and it was one which could not be put in words. Brooke saw Death awaiting himself, and, worse than that, he saw Talbot—alone, friendless, despairing, in the hands of remorseless fiends. Talbot, on the other hand, saw Death awaiting Brooke, and never could shake off the torturing thought that his death was owing to her, and that he was virtually dying for her. Had it not been for her he might still have been safe. And it seemed to her to be a very hard and bitter thing that such a man as this should have to die in such a way, and that she should be the cause. Ah! it became very hard for her to keep her promise to maintain her coolness, and to force back those tears and those cries that were ready to burst forth beyond control. Yet such was this girl's high nature that she could crush down her weak woman's heart, and turn toward Brooke a face in which there was not a trace of emotion, and speak in a voice without a tremor.

Soon a man appeared once more, thrusting his head up into the loft, and in a stern voice he ordered them to come down.

Brooke rose. He did not look at Talbot. He walked toward the ladder, droning out in a nasal whine, to a most extraordinary tune, the following words:

"Come on, you tarnal Mingo, I'll make you walk your chalks; D'ye think I care, by jingo! For all yer tomahawks! I'm more of Salamander And less of mortal man: You cannot shake my dander, I'm a rale American!"

At the opening he paused, and looked back at Talbot's pale face.

"Did you ever hear the death-song of Mullins Bryan?" he asked.

"No," said Talbot.

"H'm! I suppose not," said Brooke.

He then went down, and Talbot followed.



CHAPTER XXII.

HOW TALBOT HAS LIFE AND FREEDOM OFFERED, AND HOW SHE DECLINES THE OFFER.

Outside, Lopez was seated upon a stone which stood close by the foundation wall of the mill, and near him were about a dozen of his followers. The rest of the band were at a distance, and were all variously occupied. Some were lolling on the grass, smoking; others were lying down as though trying to sleep; others were squatting on their haunches in groups, talking and gesticulating; others were wandering away in different directions.

All this was taken in at a glance by Brooke as he came out, followed by Talbot, after which he turned and faced Lopez. The latter regarded him with sharp scrutiny for some time, after which he looked in the same way at Talbot. The gaze was returned by Talbot calmly, quietly, and unshrinkingly, without boldness, and yet without shyness. It was as though she wished to read the true character of this man, so as to see what hope there might be.

"Your name!" said Lopez to Brooke, in a tone of command.

"Raleigh Brooke," said he.

"Senor Brooke," said Lopez, "you must be aware that the accounts which you gave of yourself last night were very contradictory. Even at the best, you are, according to your own statement, a newspaper correspondent, which in our eyes is the same as a spy. But more than this, you confess yourself to be an American, which makes it still worse. And so, senor, you see that you are in an awkward position. But this is not all. There is something more that I must ask. You speak of having come on in trains—that were stopped. Were you not on that train which was stopped by the Carlists?"

"No," said Brooke, firmly, and without a moment's hesitation.

That was false, of course; but Brooke had already identified himself with Talbot, for her sake, and had told a story to which he was now forced to adhere. It would have been far better if he had told the truth at the outset, but it was too late now. So he answered "No."

"One of our men came on by the train in which you say you came," continued Lopez, "and has no recollection of you."

"Very possible," said Brooke, coolly; "and I don't suppose I have any recollection of him. People can't remember all who come and go in railway trains, even in America, where all the carriages are in one; but here, where each car is divided into coaches, how can one know anything about his fellow-passengers?"

"I came in the train that was stopped by the Carlists," said Lopez.

"Did you see me there?" asked Brooke.

"No," said Lopez; "but there was a priest."

"Was that the priest?" asked Brooke, pointing to Talbot.

"No," said Lopez—"not at all. This priest that I refer to had a beard, and wore spectacles: he was a totally different man from your friend."

Lopez now paused and reflected for a few moments.

"Come," said he at length, "I'll give you a chance. I'm not cruel; I hate bloodshed; and I don't care about shooting prisoners even when they're spies. We all look on you as a spy, but I'll give you a chance to save yourself. I'll tell you all frankly. It is this:

"I myself came on in that train that was stopped by the Carlists. In that same train there was a party of English ladies and gentlemen. All of the passengers, myself included, were robbed; but, mark you, while the natives were permitted to go away in safety, these English—ladies, mind you, as well as gentlemen—were detained by the Carlists. Now, of course, these so-called Carlists are merely brigands, or else they would not have captured and robbed a party of inoffensive travellers, and still less would they have detained them as prisoners. They are brigands, then, and of course they intend to exact a ransom from their prisoners, and of course if the ransom is not paid they will shoot every one of them.

"Well, after I had escaped from their clutches I communicated at once with the military authorities, and reported the capture of these travellers. They immediately ordered me to take a detachment of men and set off in pursuit. This is our present errand. You now know all; and if you are a true man, you will at once not only sympathize with our present undertaking, but you will lend us all the aid in your power; you will tell us all you know; you will be as frank with me as I have been with you, and help us to save these unfortunate ladies from a fate worse than death."

"Senor Captain," said Brooke, without hesitating for one instant, "I thank you for your frankness, but it is of no possible value to me. I have come from a different direction, and cannot be of the slightest assistance in this matter."

"Oh, very well," said Lopez, coldly. "As I said before, I am merciful, and hate shooting prisoners in cold blood. But mark this: if it is necessary I will not hesitate. I will allow you this day to think over what I have said. And now, what about this priest?"

"He is an English priest," said Brooke, calmly, "and cannot understand Spanish."

"Very well, you shall act as interpreter. In the first place, his name and residence?"

"Sydney Talbot," said Brooke, "of London."

"What are you doing in this country?" asked Lopez directly of Talbot.

"I came on a visit to Barcelona," said Talbot in reply, as Brooke translated the question.

"For what purpose?"

"On a visit to friends?"

"What friends?"

"English people."

"Name?"

"Rivers," said Talbot, calmly, and without a moment's hesitation. All this was news to Brooke, who had never learned her private history or the secret of her journey to Spain.

"You do not know the language? You cannot have been long in Spain?"

"No—only a week."

"A very short visit," said Lopez. "Did you come so far only to remain a week?"

"No," said Talbot, "I expected to stay much longer."

"Why did you not stay?"

"Because I found on my arrival that the family had left Barcelona."

"Where did they go?"

"I have no idea."

"Were they not expecting you?"

"I supposed that they were expecting me, and I am quite unable to account for their departure and their failure to meet me."

"And so you set out on your return home?"

"Yes."

"Well," said Lopez, "your story is a little absurd, yet not at all improbable. I dare say there was a mistake somewhere."

"There must have been—yet I don't know."

"Young sir," said Lopez, after a pause, "you carry your character in your face. You at least are not a spy. Upon that I would stake my life. I wish I could say as much for your companion. All Spaniards—at least all Republicans—would not let a priest off so easily; but you are different, and I could no more suspect you than I could suspect the apostle St. John. Senor, you are free; you may go on your way at once."

"Senor, you are free, and may go on your way at once," repeated Brooke, as a flush of joy passed over his face. "Go, Talbot, go," he added earnestly; "go at once!"

But Talbot did not move.

"I am deeply grateful, captain," said she, "but I prefer to remain with my friend."

"Talbot!" cried Brooke.

"Tell him what I say," was Talbot's calm reply.

"You are mad!" groaned Brooke.

"What is all this?" cried Lopez, angrily. "What does the priest say?"

"The priest says that he will not go," replied Brooke—"that he will stay by me."

"Oh, he does, does he?" said Lopez. "Well, that's all the better for you. You'll need him, especially if you persist in your obstinacy."

Brooke translated this, and Talbot listened without a word.

Brooke was now ordered back into the mill, and he went, Talbot following. On reaching the loft, they both were silent for a long time. Brooke spoke first.

"Oh, Talbot, Talbot!" he cried, in a reproachful voice, "why didn't you go? You had the chance."

"Go!" exclaimed Talbot. "What! go and leave you?"

"Of course," said Brooke.

"What! when you have risked your life, and are in such danger of death, for me? Oh, Brooke, Brooke! Is this, then, your opinion of me? Can you think me capable of such utter baseness?"

"Talbot," said Brooke, "it was to save your life that I left the tower, and now you will not save yourself."

"Save myself! save my worthless life! I should scorn it if I must leave you to die. Never! never! Now, may God do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me—that is, till we escape and are out of danger. We must escape together. You shall never lay down your life for me."

Talbot spoke with the air of one whose resolution was immovable. Brooke's agitation was intense.

"Talbot," he cried, "you are mad. You don't know these men. They are remorseless fiends. They will wreak their vengeance on you as well as on me."

"Let them," said Talbot, firmly.

"I tell you," cried Brooke, in vehement tones, "that I have a duty to perform and a battle to fight. I have to be constant until death to my duty; but if you stay by me—if you remain—if you are still in peril—oh, Talbot! I shall be false to my duty—for your sake."

"No, Brooke," said Talbot, "you will never be false to your duty for my sake. You will be true, and I will stand by you. You shall never see me deserting you. If you have any friendship for me, you will be glad to see your friend by your side in the hour of your trial."

"It's not that—it's not that!" cried Brooke. "Good heavens! you will not understand. Do you not see that if you remain you will soon be alone in the world, and then—who will defend you?"

"I understand well what you mean," said Talbot, firmly. "You expect to die, and do not wish to leave me here alone among these ruffians. Never fear for me. Heaven will protect me. But you must know this well, and I say it once for all, I will not leave you. I cannot be false or dishonorable. I can die. Yes, Brooke, I can die, for I remember how you told me that I am an English lad. We Talbots have given up our lives in every generation for what we believe to be the good cause; and the last of the Talbots can die gladly rather than desert a friend."

Brooke turned away. A sob burst from him. In vain he tried to restrain it. Then there followed an exceedingly bitter cry.

"Talbot! Talbot! By heaven, you'll break my heart!"

"Oh, Brooke!" cried Talbot, "be calm—oh, be calm! I say to you, as you said to me, be calm for my sake; for if you lose your self-control I shall break down utterly."



CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH BROOKE AND TALBOT EXCHANGE CONFIDENCES.

After some time Brooke grew calmer.

"And now," said Talbot, "tell me all that took place between you and this officer, for I have not understood."

Brooke told her all.

"And why can't you do what he asks?" said Talbot in surprise. "Why can't you take them to that castle? You were there, and when there you say you recognized the Carlist chief himself, the very man who stopped the train. He must have the English prisoners there. Do you men to say that you will not help those poor captives?"

"I cannot," said Brooke.

"Cannot?"

"Look here, Talbot! I've thought it over and over, and I cannot. Honor forbids. Let me explain. You see, while wandering about here, I have frequently fallen into the hands of either party, and have often been in great danger as now, yet I have always escaped. More than this, I have papers from the leading men of both sides, which testify to my character. I am therefore in honor bound never, under any circumstances, to betray one party to the other, and that, too, no matter what my own feelings may be. I came here as a neutral, a stranger, a correspondent, to get information for the distant American public. That is my business here. But the moment I begin to betray one of these parties to the other in any shape or way, the moment I communicate to others the information which I may have gained in confidence, that moment I become an infernal scoundrel."

"True, Brooke, very true!" said Talbot; "but don't you see how different this thing is? Here is a party of travellers captured by brigands, and held to ransom. You are merely asked to show the way to their prison, so that they may be set free by their friends. What betrayal of confidence is there in this?"

"I say that in any way in which I tell one of these parties about the doings of the other, I betray the confidence which has been placed in me."

"And I say, Brooke, that if you leave these English ladies in the hands of merciless villains to languish in captivity, to suffer torment, and perhaps to die a cruel death, you will be guilty of an unpardonable sin—an offence so foul that it will haunt your last hours!"

"No woman," said Brooke, "can understand a man's sense of honor."

"Sir," said Talbot, with indescribable haughtiness, "you forget my name. Trust me, sir, no Talbot ever lived who failed one jot or tittle in the extremest demand of honor. I, sir, am a Talbot, and have no need to go to you for information on points of honor. More than this, I say that you are utterly wrong; and that if you leave those English ladies in the hands of these Spanish miscreants you will do foul offence, not only to the honor of a gentleman, but even to the instincts of humanity."

"Forgive me, Talbot," said Brooke, meekly. "I don't mean what you think. When I spoke of a man's sense of honor, I referred to his life of action, with all its conflict of duty and honor, and all those complicated motives of which a woman in her retirement can know nothing."

"Believe me, Brooke," said Talbot, earnestly, "women who are lookers-on are often better and safer judges than men who are in the midst of action. Trust me, and take my advice in this matter. What! is it possible that you can have the heart to leave these English ladies to a fate of horror among brigands?"

"You put it strongly, Talbot, but that is only a partial view. In brief, you ask me to betray to the enemy a place which I may inform you happens to be one of the cardinal points in the strategy of the Carlist generals. I do not know for certain that the ladies are there; and if they are, I do not believe that they will be badly treated. A ransom will perhaps be exacted, but nothing more. On the whole, I should far rather fall into the hands of the Carlists than the Republicans. The Carlists are generous mountaineers, the peasantry of the North; the Republicans are the communist mobs of the Southern cities. I have seen very much of both sides, and think the Carlists better men every way—more chivalrous, more merciful, and more religious. I am not afraid about those prisoners. I feel convinced that when the general hears of their capture he will set them free himself. At any rate, I cannot interfere. To do so would be a hideous piece of treachery on my part. For me to betray to the Republicans this great and important Carlist fortress, which has become known to me by the favor and the confidence of the Carlist chiefs, would be a thing of horror and dishonor. I would die first, Talbot. So don't say any more. If anything could make me false to my honor and duty, it would be your entreaties. I may be wrong, after all, but I must act by my own sense of right. Would you wish me to save my life, and always afterward have the thought that I had stained my honor?"

"No, Brooke," said Talbot; "and since you feel in this way I will say no more about it."

Silence now followed. Brooke seated himself on the floor with his back against the wall, and Talbot stood looking at him as he thus sat.

This man, who led a life which required some of the qualities of the hero, had nothing particularly heroic in his outward aspect. He was a man of medium size, and sinewy, well-knit frame. He had keen, gray eyes, which noticed everything, and could penetrate to the inner core of things; close-cropped hair, short serviceable beard, of that style which is just now most affected by men of restless energy; a short, straight nose, and a general air of masterful self-restraint and self-possession. Not a handsome man, strictly speaking, was our friend Brooke; not by any means a "lady's man;" but he was something better, inasmuch as he was a manly man, one who would be trusted thoroughly and followed blindly by other men, ay, and by women too; for, after all, it is not the lady's man who is appreciated by true women, but the man's man. To such as these the best sort of women delight to do reverence. Add to this Brooke's abrupt manner, rather harsh voice, inconsequential talk, habit of saying one thing while thinking of something totally different, love of drollery, and dry, short laugh, and then you have Brooke complete, who is here described simply because there has not been any very convenient place for describing him before.

Shortly after the examination of the prisoners, the greater part of the band had gone away with the captain, and only half a dozen men were left behind on guard.

After Brooke had grown tired of his own meditations, he wandered toward the window and looked out. Here he stood watching the men below, and studying their faces until he had formed his own conclusion as to the character of each one.

"I'm trying," said he to Talbot, who came near, "to find out which one of these fellows is the most susceptible of bribery and corruption. They're all a hard lot; the trouble is that one watches the other so closely that I can't get a fair chance."

"I wonder where the others have gone," said Talbot.

"Oh, they've gone off to search for the prisoners, of course," said Brooke. "I don't believe they'll find anything about them on this road; and as for the castle, they'll be unable to do anything there unless they take cannon."

At length the opportunity arrived for which Brooke had been waiting. The guards had wandered off to a little distance, and only one man was left. He was just below at the door of the mill. Brooke was glad to see that he was the ugliest of the lot, and the very one whom he had mentally decided upon as being the most corruptible.

Upon this man he began to try his arts.

"Good-morning, senor," said he, insinuatingly.

The man looked up in a surly way, and growled back something.

"Do you smoke?" asked Brooke.

The man grinned.

Upon this Brooke flung down a small piece of tobacco, and then began to address himself to further conversation. But alas for his hopes! He had just begun to ask where the others had gone and where the man belonged, when a flash burst forth, and a rifle ball sung past him through the window just above his head. It was one of the other ruffians who had done this, who at the same time advanced, and with an oath ordered Brooke to hold no communication with the men.

"I may stand at the window and look out, I suppose?" said Brooke, coolly.

"We have orders to allow no communication with the prisoners whatever. If you speak another word you'll get a bullet through you."

Upon this Brooke concluded that his plan was a failure.

Evening came at length, and the darkness deepened. The band were still absent. The men below were perfectly quiet, and seemed to be asleep.

"I have a proposal to make," said Talbot, "which is worth something if you will only do it."

"What is that?"

"I have been thinking about it all day. It is this: Take this priest's dress again, and go. The priest, you know, is not a prisoner. He stays voluntarily. He has leave to go whenever he wishes. Now, you are the real priest, I am not. I am wearing your dress. Take it back, and go."

Brooke looked at her for a few moments in silence. It was too dark for her to see the look that he gave her.

At length, with his usual short laugh, he said,

"Well, that's a refreshing sort of a proposal to make, too, after all that has passed between us!"

"Why not?" asked Talbot. "What objection is there to it?"

"Such a question," said Brooke, "does not deserve an answer."

"My plan is feasible enough, and quite safe too."

"Nonsense! And what, pray, is to become of you?"

"Never mind that. Think of yourself, Brooke, for once in your life. To stay here is certain death for you. This is your very last chance."

Brooke was silent for a little time.

"Well," said Talbot, "will you go?"

"Oh, Talbot! Talbot!" cried Brooke; "how can you have the heart to make such a proposal to me? I have told you that the only thing that moves me is the thought of your danger. Death is nothing to me; I've faced it hundreds of times."

"It is preposterous to talk in that way!" said Talbot, excitedly. "My danger? I deny that there is any danger for me. As an English lady, I shall be safe in any event. I'm sorry I ever took this disguise. If you take it back you can go away now in safety. When they find that you have gone, they may perhaps threaten a little, but that is all. They will have nothing against me, and will, no doubt, set me free. This captain seems to be a gentleman, and I should have no fear of him. I believe that after the first explosion he would treat me with respect, and let me go."

"And so you would really let me go?" said Brooke, after a long pause, in a very low voice.

"Gladly, gladly," said Talbot.

"And stay here alone, in a new character, ignorant of the language, to face the return of the mad and furious crowd?"

"Yes."

"They would tear you to pieces," cried Brooke.

"They would not."

"They would."

"Then let them. I can die," said Talbot, calmly.

"And die for me?"

"Yes, rather than let you die for me."

"And you think I am capable of going away?" said Brooke, in a faltering voice.

At this Talbot was utterly silent. Neither spoke a word for a long time.

"Talbot, lad," said Brooke, at length, in a gentle voice.

"Well, Brooke!"

"I am glad that I met with you."

"Are you, Brooke?"

"I should like to live," he continued, in a far-off tone, like one soliloquizing, "after having met with you; but if I cannot live, I shall be glad to think that I have ever known you."

Talbot said nothing to this, and there was another long silence.

"By-the-bye," said Brooke, at last, "I should like to tell you something, Talbot, in case you should ever happen to meet with a certain friend of mine—you might mention how you met with me, and so on."

"Yes," said Talbot, in a low voice.

"This friend," said Brooke, "is a girl." He paused.

"Yes," said Talbot, in the same voice.

"It was in Cuba that I met with her. Her name is Dolores."

"Dolores—what?"

"Dolores Garcia."

"I shall remember the name."

"I was correspondent there, in just such a country as this, between two hostile forces. One evening I came to a place where a gang of insurgent Cubans were engaged in the pleasing task of burning a house. As it happened, I was wearing the dress common to the insurgents, and passed for one of themselves. Pressing into the house, I found two ladies—a young girl and her mother—in an agony of terror, surrounded by a howling crowd of ruffians. In a few words I managed to assure them of my help. I succeeded in personating a Cuban leader and in getting them away. Then I passed through the crowd outside, and, getting horses, I hurried the ladies off. Eventually we all reached Havana in safety.

"I learned that an attack had been made on the plantation, that Senor Garcia had been killed, and that as I came up the gang was plundering the place and threatening to destroy the women.

"Gratitude had the effect of making this young girl Dolores most devotedly attached to me. In the course of our journey she evinced her affection in a thousand ways. She was very young, and very beautiful, and I could not help loving her. I was also deeply moved by her passionate love for me, and so I asked her to be my wife, and she consented. After reaching Havana, Spanish manners did not allow of our seeing much of one another. Shortly afterward I had to return to the seat of war to finish my engagement, and bade her good-bye for two or three months. I expected at the end of that time to return to Havana and marry her.

"Well, I went away and heard nothing more from her. At the end of that time I returned, when, to my amazement, I learned that she had gone to Spain, and found a letter from her which gave me the whole reason for her departure. I had told her before that I myself was going to Spain in the course of another year, so she expressed a hope of seeing me there. The place to which she was going was Pampeluna. I've already tried to find her there, but in vain. The fact is, things have been so disturbed about here that people have changed their abodes, and can no longer be traced; and so I have never come upon the track of Dolores. And I mention this to you, Talbot, so that if you should ever, by any chance, happen to meet her, you may tell her that you saw me, and that I had been hunting after her all through Spain. I dare say it will soothe her, for she loved me most passionately, and must often have wondered why I never came for her. In fact, she was so gentle, so delicate, so sensitive, and yet so intense in her feelings, that I have often feared that the idea of my being false might have been too much for her loving heart, and may have cut short her young life."

After the conclusion of this story Talbot asked many questions about Dolores, and the conversation gradually changed, until at length it came round to the cross-questioning of Lopez which Talbot had undergone.

"I have never told you," said she, "about my own errand here in this country; and as this may be our last conversation, I should like very much to tell you all."

Thus this confidence of Brooke's led to a similar act on the part of Talbot, who now related to him her own history. As this has been already set forth from the lips of Harry Rivers, it need not be repeated here. Brooke listened to it in silence. At the close he merely remarked:

"Well, Talbot, we've now made our final confessions. This is our last interview. And I feel sad, not, my lad, at the thought of death, but at the thought of leaving you among these villains. My only thought is, what will become of you."

"It's strange," said Talbot, in a musing tone, "very strange. All this that I have been telling you seems now removed back away to a far, far distant past. It is as though it all happened in a previous state of existence."

"I dare say," said Brooke. "Oh yes; you see you've been having a precious hard time of it."

"Yes," mused Talbot. "Fear, hope, suspense, shame, grief, despair; then fear, suspense, and despair; then hope and joy, followed again by despair. So it has been, and all in a few days. Brooke, I tell you I am another person altogether from that girl who left her home so short a time ago. Miss Talbot—where is she? I am the lad Talbot—comrade of a brave man—fighting with him for my life, and now along with him resting in the Valley of the Shadow of Death."

"Bosh!" said Brooke, in a husky, choking voice. He muttered a few unintelligible words, and then ceased.

"Death is near, Brooke—very near; I feel it."

"Talbot," said Brooke, with something like a groan, "talk of something else."

"It's near to you."

"Well, what if it is?"

"And it's near to me."

"It's not; I tell you it's not," cried Brooke, excitedly.

"It was the old fashion of chivalry, upheld by all the Talbots, that the page or the squire should never survive the chief. I'm a Talbot. Do you understand me, Brooke?"

"If they did so," cried Brooke, in stronger excitement, "they were a pack of cursed fools.

"'He that fights and runs away May live to fight another day.'

That's my motto."

"Do you think I'll survive you?" asked Talbot, taking no notice of Brooke's words.

Brooke gave a wild laugh.

"You'll have to, my boy—you'll have to."

"I'm your page, your vassal," said she. "I'm a Talbot. We've exchanged arms. I've flung away the girl life. I'm a boy—the lad Talbot. We're brothers in arms, for good or evil, Brooke."

Brooke began to whistle, and then murmured some words like these:

"Non ego perfidum Dixi sacramentum: ibimus, ibimus, Utcunque praecedes, supremum Carpere iter comites parati."

"What do you say?" asked Talbot.

"Oh, nothing," said Brooke; "dog Latin—some rubbish from Horace. Allow me, however, to remark, that all this talk about death seems to me to be cursed bad taste."

After this he began to whistle a tune.

Suddenly he held up his hand so as to display the ring.

"Who gave you this?" he asked, carelessly.

"Mr. Rivers," said Talbot, simply. "It was our engagement ring."

Brooke gave his usual short laugh, and subsided into silence.



CHAPTER XXIV.

IN WHICH BROOKE AND TALBOT STAND FACE TO FACE WITH DEATH.

This was to be to Brooke his last day in life. The thought of this was ever present to both of them. The band would probably return during the night, and in the morning the last scene would be enacted.

In the few days in which these two had known each other they had been compelled to undergo great variations of feeling, and had come to learn each other's inmost nature more thoroughly and intimately by far than could have occurred after years of ordinary social intercourse. Together they had faced danger and death; together they had endured hope and fear, hunger and weariness, sorrow and despair. The feelings of each had been stirred to the uttermost depth. Strong natures were they, both of them; and they both were capable of self-control, and they each knew how to wear an aspect of calmness while all the time the soul within was in a tumult of terror or distress. This night was to be the last on earth to one of them, perhaps to both. So they said but little. They could but sit in silence, and think, and feel, and suffer.

At midnight there was a wild clamor outside. The band had returned. The prisoners went to the window, and there, standing side by side, they looked out. Brooke thought that his hour might even now be at hand, and the same fear occurred to Talbot. Neither spoke. So for a long time they stood watching, listening, until at last the sounds died away, all movement ceased, and all was still. The men had gone to rest, and they now knew that there would be a respite until morning. They stood looking out into the night. If a thought of flight had ever occurred to either of them, they could now see that such a thing was impossible. For they were environed with guards; and in the room below and on the grass outside the followers of Lopez lay between them and liberty.

"Brooke," said Talbot, "if you were now alone I know very well what you would do."

"What?"

"You would draw your revolver, jump down, burst through the midst of these men, and escape. Why not do so now?"

Brooke gave a short laugh.

"Do? Leave me! Fly! They cannot blame me if you fight your way through them. Better to die fighting than be shot down helplessly."

"If I did so, they'd take out their vengeance on you."

"They would not."

"They would."

"Then you stay for me!"

"Yes."

Talbot drew a long breath.

"You are bent on dying, Brooke, not to save me, but merely to prevent them from being too hard to me."

"They will let you go," said Brooke. "They will be satisfied—when I am gone."

Talbot seized his hands in a convulsive grasp.

"Oh, Brooke!" she groaned. "Can nothing move you? What is life worth to me at such a cost? Oh, Brooke, fly! Leave me. Fight your way out. I will follow you."

"You cannot. If you tried, you would be sure to be captured. I might escape as you say, but you could not."

"Oh, Brooke, try—fly! Oh, I could kill myself rather than endure this any longer."

"Talbot!" said Brooke, suddenly shaking her off.

"What, Brooke?"

"You're a fool!"

"Yes, Brooke."

"You're a fool!" he repeated, in a voice that sounded like a gasp. "Why will you persist in talking in this way, and blight and shatter all my strength of soul? It's too late, I tell you. I will not. I will not do anything that can expose you to fresh danger; your peril is great enough now, but there is a bare chance for you if nothing happens. When they have got one life they may feel inclined to spare the other."

"Never!" said Talbot. "They shall not. I will not have it."

"You must!" said Brooke, fiercely.

"I tell you I will not!" cried Talbot, in a passionate voice.

"D—n you!" roared Brooke. "I tell you you must, and you shall!"

At this there was a noise below. Some of the guard had awakened. Brooke drew a long breath, and retreated from the window into the darkness. Talbot went after him.

"Talbot," said Brooke, in a voice that was strangely sweet yet unutterably sad—"Talbot, do you want to break my heart?"

"Brooke," said Talbot, in a low, thrilling tone. "Is it your heart only, do you think, that is now almost breaking?"

After this there was a deep silence, broken only by their own quick breathing.

Brooke felt a hand in his. He caught it in a convulsive grasp; and the two hands clung to each other, and throbbed with the vehement pulsations of two hearts that now beat with intensest feeling.

"Let me go," wailed Brooke, at last, snatching his hand away. He gasped for breath. He retreated farther into the darkness. Talbot stood motionless and trembling. There was silence again for a long time. It was at last broken by Brooke.

"Come, Talbot," he said, with feverish rapidity and a wretched assumption of carelessness. "Let's engage in conversation. What shall we talk about? The weather? Or the crops? Or shall we talk politics? By-the-bye, can't you sing something? I tell you what—it isn't fair. You make me do all the singing. But I don't mind. You're a good listener, at any rate. If you like I'll sing a hymn."

And he began, singing through his nose:

"Oh, a maiden she lived in the south countrie, And a werry fine maid, my boy, was she, For her hair was as red as red can be; So off we go to Marymashee.

And a jolly young cove fell in love with she, Says he, 'My lass, will you marry me?' One foot up and t'other foot down, And away we travel to London town."

Again there was a sound below. Brooke's song had roused the guard.

Talbot gave a wild start.

"They're coming!" she gasped, in a tone of horror. "They're coming—at last. They won't wait!"

"Pooh!" said Brooke, whose voice by this time had regained its old careless ring; and he whined on:

"Cats don't come at half-past eight Tap-tap-tappiug at the garding gate!"

Talbot gave a sigh that sounded like a groan. The sounds below subsided, and all was still once more.

So the night passed.

Morning came.

A man brought up bread and wine; but now there was no thought of eating, even for the sake of saving strength. Neither one spoke, nor did either venture to look at the other.

At length they were summoned outside. Lopez was there, with half a dozen men around him. Farther away were the rest of the men, watching the scene. On the right were a dozen men with rifles. Brooke was as cool as usual. Talbot was calm, but deathly pale.

"Senor Brooke," said Lopez, "I am a man of but few words, and few need now be said. I have given you a long respite—longer than I said. What is your decision? Will you go with us and show us where the Carlists took the English ladies?"

"Senor Captain," said Brooke, calmly, "I am quite unable to give you any information about the ladies. I don't see what I can do."

"Lead us to the place," said Lopez.

Brooke shook his head.

"I can't say any more," said he.

"Very well," said Lopez, quietly. "Then you must die."

"You can certainly kill me, Senor Captain, but what good will that do?"

"Oh, no particular good," said Lopez, "but the law is that spies shall be shot at once, and I merely gave you a chance. You're a bold fellow, and I should like to spare you—that's all."

"Thanks, Senor Captain. And may I make one request?"

"Name it, senor."

"This young priest is free, is he not?"

"Certainly."

"You will suffer him to go without molestation."

"Certainly."

"He is young, and a stranger in the country. He doesn't know a word of the language, and is in despair about—about me. Would it be possible for him to procure a guide for part of the way, at least to Vittoria, or some nearer railway station?"

"I will furnish him with one," said Lopez, "all the way."

"Thank you, senor," said Brooke.

"Senor," said Lopez, "it pains me deeply to see you rush on to destruction."

"Senor Captain," said Brooke, "you are a man of honor and generosity. I wish I could do what you ask."

Lopez shrugged his shoulders. Then he sighed. Then he took a final look at Brooke.

After this he motioned to two of his men. These two came forward and led Brooke to a place opposite the file of armed men. One of the men offered to bind his eyes, but Brooke motioned him away.

"I don't want it," said he.

As he said this, Talbot came up and stood by his side. Lopez walked down toward the file of men and stood at a point on one side, half-way between the condemned and the soldiers.

"Talbot," said Brooke, in a low voice, "go away."

"Brooke," said Talbot, "will you not live?"

"What! in dishonor?"

"Oh, my God!" groaned Talbot. "What shall I do? He will die—and I've killed him!"

"Talbot," said Brooke, in a husky and unsteady voice, "go away. You'll make me die two deaths. You are safe. Lopez has promised to send a guide with you to Vittoria."

"A guide?" said Talbot, in a strange voice.

"Think of me—sometimes," stammered Brooke.

Talbot turned and looked at him. Brooke saw the look and all that was conveyed in it, and then obstinately shut his eyes.

Lopez now turned to see if the two friends had said their last say. He saw a singular sight. The "priest" was standing directly in front of Brooke and facing the file of soldiers. At that moment also Brooke opened his eyes again and saw Talbot in front of him.

He stepped forward and seized her arm.

"Oh, Talbot! oh, Talbot!" he groaned. "This is worse than death. Why will you torment me?"

Talbot shook him off. Brooke threw a despairing look at the captain, and shrank back. Talbot folded her arms and stood in front of him.

Had she only been able to speak Spanish she would have told them all—how this man had run into danger on her account, how he was now dying through her, how she was resolved to die either for him or with him. She would have told them all that, but that would not have revealed the half of all the eloquent story which stood unfolded in her attitude and in her face.

She stood erect, her arms folded on her breast, facing thus the file of soldiers.

Her look, however, was as though she saw them not. Her eyes were turned toward them, yet their gaze was fixed on vacancy. She thus showed her face—looking thus with steadfast eyes—a calm face, serene, tranquil, white as marble, and as motionless. All that Brooke had seen there which had made him think of the Angel Gabriel, and all that Lopez had seen there which made him think of the Apostle John, was now clearly manifest in that noble and expressive countenance. It was the face of a pure, a lofty, an exalted nature, full of profoundest feeling and matchless self-control—the face of one who was resolved to die, the face of a martyr, the face of one who was standing in full view of Death, who was waiting for his approach, and was undismayed.

As for Brooke, he at last experienced all that he had dreaded. He was utterly overcome. White, ghastly, trembling from head to foot, he stared at Talbot with something like horror in his face, yet he could not move. He stood shuddering, and speechless.

At such an astonishing and unexpected spectacle the very soldiers gazed in awe.

Hardened as they were, there was something in Talbot's determined self-sacrifice, and in Brooke's manifest anguish of soul, which overcame them all, and hushed them all alike into wonder and silence. All eyes were fixed on the two who thus stood before the file of soldiers. At length there arose murmurs—strange murmurs indeed to come from such men, for they indicated pity and compassion.

Upon Lopez the effect of all this was overwhelming. He had seen it from the beginning. He saw the face of Talbot, the agony of Brooke. At first there was only wonder in his looks, then came profound agitation. His sword dropped from his hand.

He turned away. Now, as he thus turned away, had he encountered fierce, cruel, blood-thirsty faces, he might have come back to his first resolve, and recovered from the emotion which was unmanning him; but the faces of his men were full of pity and of wonder. His fierce followers were themselves overcome, and thus the agitation of Lopez was heightened.

"I am a soldier," he cried; "I am not a bandit. I am not a cut-throat. It's all very well for us to kill our enemies in battle, but, my lads, to kill people in this way is butchery, and if they want butchers they'll have to get others. I must talk to these men again, especially to this priest."

With these words Captain Lopez dismissed his men and then turned to Brooke.

"Senor," said he, "I have some more questions to ask. I will therefore postpone proceedings until after further examination."

Talbot understood the actions of Lopez, and comprehended the meaning of his words.

There was an immense revulsion of feeling within her—from that preparation for death to this restoration to life; yet so perfect was her self-control that she lost not one whit of her caution, and vigilance, and outward calm. She did not trust herself to look at Brooke. She merely turned away and stood with her eyes fixed on the ground. Brooke stood watching her with a haggard stare. He did not look at Lopez; but as he caught his words he muttered something in reply which was unintelligible to Lopez, and quite incoherent in itself.

The prisoners were now conducted back again to their place of confinement. Here at last, removed from all strange eyes, the fortitude of Talbot, so long sustained, gave way utterly. Under the pressure of so tremendous a reaction her womanly nature reasserted itself. She fell prostrate upon the floor, and lay there, overwhelmed by a vehement passion of tears. As for Brooke, he dared not trust himself to soothe her; he dared not even so much as look at her, but seated himself as far away as possible, and buried his face in his hands.



CHAPTER XXV.

IN WHICH BROOKE SINGS AND TALKS IN A LIGHT AND TRIFLING MANNER.

Brooke and Talbot had thus emerged from the Valley of the Shadow of Death, but that shadow still rested upon them. Their sudden deliverance had left them both alike overwhelmed; and as they stood apart, not speaking, not even looking at one another, there was a struggle in the mind of each which made it hard indeed for them to regain any kind of self-control. The vision of death which had been before them had disclosed to each the inmost soul of the other, and had led to revelations of feeling that might not have been made under any other circumstances. They had both alike expected death; they had said to one another their last and truest words; they had given expression to their most secret and sacred confidences; they had bidden their most solemn and most tender farewells; but the moment which had threatened to be the last of life, had passed away leaving them still in the land of the living—leaving them together as before, bound by the new and imperishable tie of a common memory, for neither could forget all that had been said, and felt, and done by the other.



After the events of the morning, Lopez had gone away with the greater part of his followers, leaving behind a guard of about half a dozen, as before. The noise of these movements had aroused the two prisoners, and they had gone to the window to look out, seeking rather to distract their thoughts than to satisfy anything like curiosity. From this window they had watched these proceedings in silence, standing close beside each other, with their eyes turned to the scene outside, but with thoughts wandering elsewhere. At length all had gone except the guard, and the last of the band had been swallowed up by the intervening hills. There was nothing more to be seen outside or to serve as a pretence for keeping their looks from following their thoughts.

Their eyes met. It was a deep and an eloquent look, full of unuttered meaning, which each turned upon the other; and each seemed to read in the eyes of the other all the secrets of the heart; and standing thus they looked into one another's hearts.

It was Brooke who spoke first.

"I wonder," said he, in a low, gentle voice—"I wonder, Talbot, if you had that look when you placed yourself in front of me and faced their levelled rifles. If so, Talbot, lad, I don't wonder that the soldiers paused; for they say that the calm eye of man can tame the wild beast or the fury of the maniac; and so your eyes tamed the madness of these fierce ruffians. Was your look then, Talbot, as calm and as firm as it is now?"

"It was fixed," said Talbot, in a gentle voice, "unalterably. But it was not their rifles that I saw; it seemed then as though I saw the other world."

A short silence followed, and then Brooke spoke again, in a voice which was very weak and tremulous.

"And you, Talbot, stood before their bullets, offering your life for mine!"

The accents of his voice seemed to quiver with suppressed passion and infinite tenderness.

"It was only a fair exchange," said Talbot, slowly; and her voice thrilled, as she spoke, through the heart of Brooke as he went over to her to listen; "for you were giving up your own life for me."

There was silence now for some time, during which their eyes were fastened upon one another. At length Brooke drew a long breath and turned away. Then he began abruptly to sing one of his droll songs. His voice was faint at first, but grew stronger as he went on:

"Billy Taylor was a gay young rover, Full of mirth and full of glee; And his mind he did discover To a maid of low degree. Rite follalol-lol-lol-lol-lido, Rite follalol-lol-lol-lol-lay."

"You see," continued he, "my way is to sing while I can. There are too many times in life when you can't sing 'Billy Taylor.' Then you may retire to your corner, and wear sackcloth and ashes. Such a time is coming, Talbot, lad, when the strain of 'Billy Taylor' shall be heard no more. But so long as I can I'll sing:

"'But this maiden had a parient, Who was very stern to she. "Fly, oh, fly, my dearest darter, From the wiles of your Billee!" Rite follalol-lol-lol-lol-lido, Rite follalol-lol-lol-lol-lay.'"

During this little diversion of Brooke's Talbot said nothing. It was, as he said, his way, and Talbot had grown accustomed to it. A long silence followed, after which Brooke once more addressed her.

"Talbot," said he, "we have been acquainted only two or three days, and we have told one another all that is in our hearts. So it seems as if we had been friends for a long time. Yes, Talbot; if I were to count over all the friends of all my life, I could not find one like you—no, not one. And now, if we both escape and you go back to your people, how strange it will be never to meet again."

"Never to meet again!" repeated Talbot; and an expression as of sharp and sudden pain flashed over her face. "You do not mean to say that you will never come to me?"

"Come to you!" repeated Brooke, and he gave that short laugh of his. "Oh yes—I'll come, of course, and I'll leave my card; and perhaps you'll be 'not at home,' or perhaps I'll be asked to call again, or perhaps—"

Talbot smiled, and Brooke, catching her eye, smiled also, and stopped abruptly.

Then followed another silence, which, however, unlike most of such periods, was not at all embarrassing.

"Have you noticed," said Talbot, at length, "that they have left the same small guard which they left before?"

"Oh yes; but what of that?"

"Don't you think that now, after what has happened, they might be far less strict, and be open to a moderate bribe?"

"Bribe? And why?" asked Brooke.

"Why? why?" repeated Talbot, in surprise. "Why, to escape—to get our freedom."

"But suppose I don't want my freedom?" said Brooke.

"Not want it? What do you mean? Do you suppose that I may not be strong enough for the journey? Don't be afraid of that. I feel strong enough now for any effort. I'll fly with you—anywhere, Brooke."

"Fly?" said Brooke; "fly? What, and take you to your friends? And then what? Why, then—a long good-bye! Talbot, I'm too infernally selfish. I'll tell you a secret. Now that the worst is over—now that there doesn't seem to be any real danger—I'll confess that I enjoy this. I don't want it to end. I feel not only like singing, but like dancing. I want to be always living in a tower, or an old windmill, or anywhere—so long as I can look up and see you, I don't want anything more in the world. And when I look up and see Talbot no more—why, then I'll stop singing. For what will life be worth then, when all its sunlight, and bloom, and sweetness, and joy are over, and when they are all past and gone forever? Life! why, Talbot, lad, I never began to know what life could be till I saw you; and do you ask me now to put an end to our friendship?"

This was what Brooke said, and then he turned off into a song:

"Then this maiden wiped her eyelids With her pocket-handkerchee; Though I grow a yaller spinster I will stick to my Billee! Rite follalol-lol-lol-lol-lido, Rite follalol-lol-lol-lol-lay."

After this there followed another prolonged silence. Talbot was now the first to speak.

"Brooke," said she, in her low, soft, tremulous voice, which had died down almost to a whisper, "we know the secrets of one another's hearts. Oh, Brooke! Brooke! why have we never met before? Oh, Brooke! how strangely we have drifted together! How much we have learned about each other! Is Fate so bitter as to make us drift away, after—after—"

Her voice died away altogether, and she turned her face aside and bowed down her head.

Brooke looked at her for a moment, and seemed about to take her hand, but he conquered this impulse and resolutely averted his eyes.

"Don't know, I'm sure," said he, at last, with an affectation of airy indifference.

"It would take a man with a head as long as a horse to answer such a question as that. Talbot, lad, you shouldn't plunge so deep into the mysteries of being."

After this there was another silence, and then Talbot looked up at Brooke with her deep, dark glance, and began to speak in a calm voice, which, however, did not fail to thrill through the heart of Brooke as he listened.

"Brooke," said she, "you have your own way. Your way is to conceal a most tender and pitying heart under a rough or at least an indifferent manner—to hide the deepest feeling under a careless smile, and pretend to be most volatile and flippant when you are most serious. You can perform heroic actions as though they were the merest trifles, and lay down your life for a friend with an idle jest. You make nothing of yourself and all of others. You can suffer, and pretend that you enjoy it; and when your heart is breaking, you can force your voice to troll out verses from old songs as though your chief occupation in life were nonsense, and that alone. And this is the man," continued Talbot, in a dreamy tone, like that of one soliloquizing—"this is the man that I found by chance in my distress; the man that responded to my very first appeal by the offer of his life; that went into the jaws of death merely to bring me food; the man that gave up all the world for me—his duty, his love, his life; the man that has no other purpose now but to save me, and who, when his whole frame is quivering with anguish, can smile, and sing, and—"

"Well, what of it?" interrupted Brooke, harshly. "What of it, oh, thou searcher of hearts? And, moreover, as to nonsense, don't you know what the poet says?

"'A little nonsense now and then Is relished by the wisest men.'

Moreover, and, yea, more, as to smiles and laughter, don't you know what another poet says?—Shakspeare, for instance:

"''Tis better to laugh than be sighing;'

or, as Lord Bacon, or Plato, or somebody else says, 'Laugh and grow fat.' And didn't John Bunyan prefer the House of Mirth to the House of Mourning?

"'John Bunyan was a tinker bold, His name we all delight in; All day he tinkered pots and pans, All night he stuck to writin'.

In Bedford streets bold Johnny toiled, An ordinary tinker; In Bedford jail bold Johnny wrote— Old England's wisest thinker.

About the Pilgrims Johnny wrote, Who made the emigration; And the Pilgrim Fathers they became Of the glorious Yankee nation.

Ad urbem ivit Doodlius cum Caballo et calone, Ornavit plnma pilenm Et diiit:—Maccaroni!'

"Excuse me," he continued; "you don't understand dog-Latin, do you, Talbot?"

"No," said she, with a smile, "but I understand you, Brooke."

"Well," said Brooke, "but apart from the great question of one another which is just now fixing us on the rack, or on the wheel, or pressing us to any other kind of torment, and considering the great subject of mirthfulness merely in the abstract, do you not see how true it is that it is and must be the salt of life, that it preserves all living men from sourness, and decay, and moral death? Now, there's Watts, for instance—Isaac Watts, you know, author of that great work, 'Watts's Divine Hymns and Spiritual Songs for Infant Minds,' or it may have been 'Watts's Divine Songs and Spiritual Hymns for Infant Mind.' I really don't remember. It's of no consequence. Now, what was Watts? Why, on my side altogether. Read his works. Consult him in all emergencies. If anything's on your mind, go and find Watts on the mind. It'll do you good. And as the song says:

"'Oh, the Reverend Isaac Watts, D.D., Was a wonderful boy at rhyme; So let every old bachelor fill up his glass And go in for a glorious time. Chorus.—Let dogs delight To bark and bite, But we'll be jolly, my lads, to-night.'"

During this last little diversion Brooke never turned his eyes toward Talbot. She was close by his side; but he stood looking out of the window, and in that attitude kept rattling on in his most nonsensical way. It was only in this one fact of his careful manner of eluding the grasp, so to speak, of Talbot's eyes, that an observer might discern anything but the most careless gayety. To Talbot, however, there was something beneath all this, which was very plainly visible; and to her, with her profound insight into Brooke's deeper nature, all this nonsense offered nothing that was repellent; on the contrary, she found it most touching and most sad. It seemed to her like the effort of a strong man to rid himself of an overmastering feeling—a feeling deep within him that struggled forever upward and would not be repressed. It rose up constantly, seeking to break through all bounds; yet still he struggled against it; and still, as he felt himself grow weaker in the conflict, he sought refuge in fresh outbursts of unmeaning words. But amidst it all Talbot saw nothing except the man who had gone forth to die for her, and in all his words heard nothing except the utterance of that which proved the very intensity of his feelings.

"Oh yes," continued Brooke, "there are lots of authorities to be quoted in favor of mirthfulness. I've already mentioned Bunyan and Watts. I'll give you all the rest of the old divines.

"'Oh, Baxter is the boy for me, So fall of merriment and glee: And when I want a funny man, I turn to any old Puritan:— A Puritan, A funny man, I read the works of a Puritan!

Among the Puritan divines Old Cotton Mather brightest shines, And he could be a funny man, Because he was a Puritan:— A Puritan, A funny man, Old Mather was a Puritan!

The old Blue-Laws, of all the best, Od Calvin made in solemn jest; For fun he never could tolerate. Unless established by the State:— A Puritan, A funny man, John Calvin was a Puritan!"

This eccentric song Brooke droned out in nasal tones and with a lachrymose whine to the strangest tune that ever was heard. At its close he heaved a sigh, and said:

"Well, it's dry work singing hymns all by myself, and you won't even 'jine' in the choruses, and so—I'll stop the machine."

Saying this, he turned away and went to the opposite side of the small loft, where he sat down with his head against the wall.

"Does any lady or gentleman present object to smoking?" said he, after a brief pause, as he drew forth his pipe and smoking materials. "Because I propose to take a smoke, and I should like to know, just out of curiosity."

To this Talbot made no reply, but sat down opposite Brooke, in the same attitude, and watched him as he smoked, which he proceeded to do without any further delay.

"You don't smoke, I believe, sir," said he, with all gravity.

Talbot said nothing.

"Well," said Brooke, "I wouldn't advise you to begin;" and with that he went on puffing away.

Brooke at last finished his smoke, after which he put his pipe in his pocket, and then, throwing his head back, sat with his eyes obstinately fixed on the ceiling.

Talbot remained in the same attitude, without moving. She had kept her eyes all this time fixed on Brooke, and knew that he was avoiding her glance. All the same, however, she continued watching him, and was waiting patiently till she should catch his eye. But Brooke, as though aware of her purpose, avoided her, and still locked away.

Thus these two sat in utter silence for a long time.

It was Talbot who first broke the silence.

"Brooke," said she, in a soft, low voice, which sounded like a sigh.

"Well, Talbot," said Brooke, in a voice which was strangely altered from the somewhat hard tones of forced gayety in which he had last been speaking.

"Brooke," said Talbot, "I am miserable."

Brooke was silent for a time. He made a movement, then checked himself, and then said,

"Are you? Odd, too, isn't it?"

"I am miserable," said Talbot again; "and it is strange, for your life has been saved, and we are out of immediate danger. Yet I am now more miserable than I was last night when your life was in danger. Can you tell me why it is so, Brooke?"

Again Brooke made a movement, which he checked, as before, by a strong impulse.

"Give it up," said he, shortly.

"I know," said Talbot. "I'll tell you. It was this," and her voice dropped as she spoke to a lower tone. "Last night I had made up my mind to die for you, Brooke."

Brooke drew a long breath. For an instant his eyes lowered. They caught the gaze which Talbot had fixed on him—deep, intense, unfathomable. It was but for a moment, and then it was as though he made a violent effort, and tore them away.

One of his hands caught at the other, and held it in a tight grip.

"Too much Talbot in that," he said at length, in a harsh voice. "If you go on dying for people, what'll become of you?"

"And now," continued Talbot, in a dreamy way—"now, when suspense and danger seem over, I am miserable—simply miserable, Brooke. Why should my mind have such strange alternations, feelings so contradictory, so unreasonable? I ought to be happy—why am I not?"

"Now," said Brooke, in the same harsh tone as before, "you're beginning to talk metaphysics, and I'm all at sea there."

Talbot was silent.

Brooke began to sing:

"How doth the little busy bee Improve the shining hour. But I prefer The caterpil-ler That feeds on the self-same flower. The bee he slaves for all his life;— Not so the other one; For he soars to the sky, A butterfly, Ere half his days are done."

Silence now followed for a very long time. It was at length broken by Brooke.

"Talbot," said he, in a soft, low voice.

"Well, Brooke," said Talbot.

"Will you be silent if I say something?"

"Yes, Brooke."

"Not speak a word?"

"No, Brooke."

"Not move an inch?"

"No, Brooke."

"Well," said Brooke, on second thoughts, "I think I won't say it."

Talbot said nothing.

Brooke sat looking away, as usual, but now, at last, his eyes, which had so long avoided hers, sank down till they met her gaze. They rested there, and these two sat in silence, regarding one another with a strange, sad look of longing, as though there was between them a barrier over which they dared not pass. And that barrier arose there, invisible yet impassable—the pledge of honor and fidelity already given by each to another, at the thought of which they had now to crush down the surging passions within.

"Talbot," said Brooke once more.

"Well, Brooke," was the answer.

"Oh, Talbot! Talbot! Do you know what I wish to say?"

"Yes, Brooke," said Talbot. "I know it. I know it—all."

"Well, I will say it," said Brooke, "for I cannot keep it. Oh, Talbot! it is this—it is part of my Puritan education, perhaps. Oh, Talbot"—and his eyes rested on hers with a devouring gaze, and his voice trembled and died out into almost inaudible tones—"oh, Talbot, my younger brother Talbot! Very pleasant hast thou been unto me. Thy love to me is wonderful—passing the love of women!"

Talbot was true to her promise. She did not move an inch and she did not speak a word. But her eyes were fixed upon his; and in those eyes Brooke saw once again what he had seen before—the look of a love that had already shown itself stronger than life.

* * *

It was evening.

Suddenly there arose a noise outside. Brooke started up and went to the window, where he stood looking out. It was Lopez, with all his followers, who were returning.

Brooke, in his usual fashion, sang:

"Oh, little Jack he climbed so high, Up the beanstalk into the sky, And there he saw an ogre grim A comin' to make mince-meat of him. Singing fe-fi-fo-fum— I smell the blood of nu Englishmun!"



CHAPTER XXVI.

HOW MR. ASHBY MEETS WITH A GREAT SURPRISE AND A VERY GREAT CONSOLATION.

Ashby was alone in his chamber. His room opened from the lower hall, and was directly beneath that in which Harry was confined. It was of the same dimensions in all save height, in which respect it was much inferior. The room had also a gloomier character, for the high stonewalls, as they rose and arched overhead, had the aspect of some cathedral crypt or burial-place. The windows here were narrow slits, as above, through which the different court-yards might be seen. The floor was of stone, and at one end there was a huge fireplace, very similar to the others already mentioned, though not so high.

It had been a long, long day for Ashby. Evening came, and found him weary and worn out with ennui. Without any occupation for his energies, his mind preyed upon itself, and there certainly was sufficient occupation for his fancy. His mind was in a whirl, and speedily became a prey to every variety of conflicting feeling. He remembered Katie's bright smile, and also the dark glance of Dolores. He was jealous of the smiles which Katie had so lavishly bestowed on Harry. He was offended with her for being so gay under such circumstances. But, in his loneliness, there were other feelings which were stronger than even this resentment and jealousy. There were certain strange and indefinable longings after some society; and the society which now seemed most desirable was the gentle presence of Dolores. Her last looks remained deeply impressed upon his memory; her last deep, earnest glance had sunk into his soul. He could not throw aside this recollection.

Dolores was in all his thoughts, though he had tried to thrust her aside.

He found himself continually comparing these two. Would Katie be so glad at seeing him again as Dolores had been at meeting him? Would Katie take so much trouble for the sake of speaking to him? On the other hand, would Dolores be so gay, so happy, and so merry when torn from him? and would Dolores look upon him in his loneliness with such a smile of indifference and light-hearted mirth? Never! Dolores had a deeper nature. In the glance of Dolores her inmost soul had been revealed. At its recollection his nerves thrilled, his heart throbbed faster. He longed to hear her voice again. And thus, as the hours passed, the image of Katie faded away, and that of Dolores grew more strongly defined; the image of Dolores as she had last appeared to him—pale, sad, anxious, earnest, her eyes fixed upon him with deep, intense melancholy and profound pity.

"Afar away from thee, Thy pale face haunts me yet; Deep yearns my heart for thee, Thy last sad look and word unable to forget."

These words occurred to him, and he murmured them to himself. It was to Dolores that he applied them, and naturally too; for how ridiculously inapplicable to Katie would they be! All else was now forgotten except Dolores. He felt a longing after her that was like homesickness. The past all came back. He recalled her as she had been when he first met her at Valencia. A thousand little incidents in his life there, which had been for a time forgotten, now revived in his memory. He had been for months at their house and had been nursed through a long illness. He had been loaded with kindness and affection. The aged mother had been his nurse during his illness, and Dolores had been his companion during his convalescence. He had left them, expecting soon to return. Circumstances, however, had arisen which kept him away, and he had forgotten her. Now, however, a stronger feeling had arisen for her, as Dolores had appeared in more than her olden beauty, with the additional charm of a strange, pathetic grace, and a wistful look in her dark eyes that seemed to speak of something more than ordinary friendship. She had spoken of the days at Valencia; she had reproached him for forgetting. She herself had not forgotten those days—the days in which they used to talk and walk and sing together.

As there was nothing to divert his mind from these thoughts, Ashby gave himself up to them, and thus became more helpless against them. It was in such a mood as this that he lay upon his rude couch, unable to sleep, and wondering what was to be the end of his present adventure. Should he ever see her again? Was she here now, or had they let her go? The thought that she might possibly have been set free, that she might now be far away, was too distressing to be entertained. If so, then his prison seemed doubly dark. If so, then what could he do? Even if he should become free, what was he to do? Upon one thing he was resolved, and that was to seek after her until he might find her. And Katie? Well, the fact is, Katie was left out of consideration.

Hours had passed. Ashby could not sleep. His mind was as active as ever, and still, as ever, his thoughts all gathered about Dolores.

Suddenly, in the very midst of these thick-teeming fancies, his attention was arrested by a strange sound.

It was only a slight rustle, scarce audible, yet still he heard it, and under such circumstances it seemed most mysterious. In an instant he was all attention. He lay motionless, yet listened with intense watchfulness, peering at the same time into the dark room, where the moonlight struggled through the low, narrow windows.

After a little while he thought that he heard the sound again. He listened, without motion.

Then there came a different sound. It was a low whisper—a whisper which, however, penetrated to his very soul:

"Assebi!"

Was there any other in all the world who would pronounce his name in that way? It was the well-known, well-remembered, and dearly loved name as it had been pronounced by Dolores in the old days at Valencia. Coming thus to him at such a time, it seemed too good to be true. He was afraid that he had been deceived by his own fancy; he feared to move lest he might dispel this sweet vision. Yet he hoped that he might not be mistaken; and in this hope, scarce expecting an answer, he said, in a gentle whisper,

"Dolores!"

"I am here!" said a soft voice.

At this Ashby's heart beat wildly, and a thrill of rapture rushed through every nerve and fibre of his being. He sprang up and peered through the gloom, and moved forward in the direction from which the voice seemed to have come. At this moment he did not stop to consider how Dolores could have got there. It was enough that she really was there, and all other feelings were lost in his deep joy.

"Dolores," he said, "where are you? I don't see you."

Through the room a figure now advanced across the moonbeams. He saw the figure. In another instant he had caught Dolores in his arms, and held her strained close to his wildly throbbing heart. But Dolores struggled away.

"Oh no!" she said, in a tone of distress, speaking in her sweet Spanish—"oh no, Senor Assebi. This is cruel—when I have risked so much for you!"

"Forgive me, dearest Dolores," said Ashby; "but you have come to me like an angel from heaven in my darkest hour. And I have thought of you, and of you only, ever since you left me at Burgos. I wandered all through the streets there to find you. I have been in despair at losing you. I have been wondering whether I should ever see you again—and now, dearest, sweetest Dolores, I have you again!"

All this was rapidly uttered in a resistless torrent of words, in which all his long pent-up feelings flowed forth.

Dolores began to sob.

"I didn't think this," she said, "or I should have been afraid to come. Senor, you are false to your English bride."

"English bride!" cried Ashby, scornfully. "What is she? A doll! I never wish to see her again. My fancy for her was a whim—a passing whim! You, Dolores—you are the only one that I love! I love you! I love you, I adore you! my own—"

"Senor," cried Dolores, tearing away her hands, which Ashby had seized in his, "I will instantly leave you if you are so dishonorable. All this is insult to me—yes, to me. Oh, senor, you will break my heart!"

As Dolores said this, sobs burst from her. She glided away into the gloom, still sobbing. Ashby gave way utterly.

"Dolores," he cried, in a tone of entreaty—"Dolores, forgive me! I will never offend again—never—never! Oh, forgive me! Come back, Dolores! Oh, do not leave me, Dolores!"

At this Dolores relented, and Ashby saw her approaching him again. He advanced toward her.

"Be calm," she said; "speak low; we are in danger."

"But how did you get here?" asked Ashby.

"I will tell you another time. It is a secret passage."

"A secret passage?"

"Yes. I have come to tell you that I can save you. You may escape."

"Escape?"

"Yes. I know the way out."

"How does that happen?"

"Oh, I have been here before."

"You!—here?"

"Yes. When I was a child I was here. My father lived here. He had a plantation. But enough; I know the way out."

"But haven't you run too much risk in coming here?"

"I have run a risk," said Dolores, slowly, "but not—too—much."

"A risk?"

"Yes. I went into the wrong room. A man was asleep there. I went to him and touched him, and whispered in his ear your name."

"Dolores!"

"Hush! be calm, senor. Remember your promise."

"Who was the man?"

"I could not see him. He pursued me, but I escaped."

"But you!—how did you get here?"

"By a secret passage, as I said."

"In what part of the castle are you?"

"Oh, in the story above."

"Do they treat you well?" asked Ashby, in a tone of tender solicitude.

"I have nothing to complain of."

"Do you feel lonely? I wonder if you have felt as I have?"

Dolores sighed.

"Sometimes," she said, "I have felt lonely."

"And you have come here to save me?"

"Yes—why not?"

"But you are risking much—perhaps your life."

It all burst forth now.

"I don't care," said Dolores, impetuously, "if I can save—you!"

Ashby made no reply. He took the little hand of Dolores gently and tenderly, without any resistance on her part, and held it in silence.



CHAPTER XXVII.

HOW MR. ASHBY AND MISS DOLORES GARCIA CARRY ON A VERY INTERESTING CONVERSATION.

Ashby stood thus, holding the little hand of Dolores, and was overcome by the strongest emotions. He was in a very trying position. Her presence filled him with joy, yet she would not allow him to express that joy. Being bound to another, he was forced by Dolores to respect that bond. And yet, what must her feelings be toward him, since she had come here to see him, venturing so far and risking so much? Who else in the world would do this for him? Would Katie? The idea was too absurd. Katie was a mere butterfly; but Dolores, with her intense nature, her passionate self-devotion, was formed out of that stuff from which the heroine is made. Katie could lose all she loved best, and still go on smiling and smiling; but Dolores could lay down her life for her friend. (Such were the sentiments of Ashby on this occasion, and need not be considered as by any means a fair estimate of the real character of the young lady in question. Katie has yet to speak for herself.)

So Ashby felt himself debarred from making any strong demonstration of feeling either by word or act. He was afraid that Dolores might resent it. She might even fly from him as mysteriously as she had come. He was bound, therefore, to set a watch upon himself, and repress his feelings most strongly. It seemed to him a great concession on her part that she permitted him even to hold her hand. This was of itself most sweet, even if he could say nothing of those thoughts that were swelling within him.

"How did you manage to hide yourself so at Burgos?" he asked, after a long silence.

"I did not hide," said Dolores. "I went to that house where my friends were; and on the following morning they took me to a hotel where they said there was an English family. These were the Russells, and they consented to let me travel with them as far as I was going. Your English maiden is very beautiful, senor."

Dolores spoke these last words in a tone full of pathos.

"She is a pink-and-white doll," said Ashby, sharply. "Tell me about yourself, Dolores. Do you know"—and he bent down low over her—"do you know how I tried to see you? I was up at four, and from that until ten I paced the streets in all directions, hoping to get a glimpse of you. Did you know that I was looking for you? Then at last I saw you with that beast of a tailor, and I was in despair."

"What! could you not join their party? I wondered why you did not come to speak to—to me," said Dolores, "and I felt hurt—because I thought I might never see you again."

"Dolores," said Ashby, taking her hand in both of his, and drawing nearer to her, "I swear that at that time I'd have given my right arm to speak to you. But that devil of a tailor is my bitter enemy; and you saw the quarrel we had in the railway station at Madrid."

"Then you did not purposely—avoid me?" said Dolores, in a faltering voice.

"Oh, Dolores!" said Ashby, in a reproachful tone. He tried to draw her nearer, but Dolores would not allow it.

"I thought that I should like to say good-bye, and it seemed sad to have you appear to avoid me."

"By heavens, Dolores!" cried Ashby, "I had made up my mind to leave the train and follow you to Pampeluna."

Dolores sighed.

"You could not have left your English maiden," said she.

"I could—I would!" cried Ashby. "By heavens, I would! She is nothing to me—nothing better than a kitten. The moment you came, I understood all my feeling for her. It was nothing. Beside you, she sinks into utter insignificance. You, Dolores, are everything to me. I tell you, you are infinitely dearer to me than that—"

"Hush, senor," said Dolores; "I will not—I will—will—will not listen to one single, single word of this."

"But, oh, dearest, sweetest Dolores, will you not let me tell you how I love you?" said Ashby, drawing her closer to him.

Dolores shrank away.

"Oh no—no, no!" she said. "I will not listen—never—never—never!"

"I tell you, Dolores," continued Ashby, "since I have seen you I have discovered that all the world and everything in it isn't worth a straw to me unless I have you. I swear to you that when you left me at Burgos all the light of life went out, and all the joy and sweetness of life left me. I'd rather stand here in this prison with you than be a king outside without you. And I'm glad that these devils of Carlists have captured us."