At this Katie made no observation, but drew a long breath, and leaned back with the air of a martyr. This was excessively aggravating to Lopez, but he managed to smother his irritation, and proceeded:

"Pardon me, senorita, if I have to recall the past. I saw you, as you remember, some months ago for the first time, and found you not unwilling to receive my attentions. From the first moment of my acquaintance with you I loved you, and thought that I had reason for hope. Lovers are always sanguine."

"I can assure you, senor," said Katie, "I do not see how you could have found any reason to hope in this case."

Lopez felt this rebuff very keenly, but kept his temper.

"I was merely speaking of my own hopes," said he, mildly, "and you certainly were far more amiable than you now are."

"I'm sure, senor, I should be sorry to be otherwise than amiable, but sleepless nights and solitary confinement must necessarily affect one's temper. I can only say I do not wish to be rude."

"Pardon me—rude? That is impossible," said Lopez, grasping eagerly at this as at some small concession. "I only want you to give me now a fair hearing. Let me say, once for all, that I loved you then, and have loved you ever since, most devotedly."

"I suppose I have to listen," said Katie, "as I am your prisoner; but I will only hint that before speaking of love it might be as well to set me free."

Lopez drew a long breath. It was hard indeed for him to keep down his anger.

"Very well," said he, taking no notice of her words. "In the midst of my hopes there came this English Ashby, and at once I felt that I was pushed into the background. I bore my disappointment as well as I could, and in addition to this I put up with things of which you never knew. That man had a most insolent manner. He was wealthy. He was purse-proud, and excited universal hate by his overbearing ways. There was always the clink of gold in his voice, and even in his step. I have even received insults from him."

"Why did you put up with insults?" asked Katie. "I thought that no Spaniard ever allowed himself to be insulted."

"For your sake," said Lopez, in a tender voice. "For your sake I endured all."

"For my sake! I am at a loss to see why you should allow any one to insult you for my sake."

"Ah! there were many reasons why I had to be very, very patient for your sake. In the first place, I saw that you preferred him to me, and I feared that if I quarrelled with him you would hate me; and that would have been worse than death. Again, if I had quarrelled with him, you would have been known as the cause, and would have been talked about; and in Spain it is a great dishonor to a young lady to be talked about. But do not suppose that I would have allowed him to insult me with impunity. No; a day was to come for a settlement, and he knew it. When we left Madrid we had agreed upon a meeting."

"I didn't know that," said Katie, carelessly.

Lopez was struck with this careless tone with regard to a matter which affected the life of Ashby; for it was hardly possible that Ashby could have come unharmed out of a mortal combat, but he took no notice of it.

"Such," said he, "was the state of affairs up to the hour of our journey. Then the train was stopped, and I moved heaven and earth to follow you and effect your rescue, with what success you perceive; for here I am, and this castle is in my hands."

"I must protest," said Katie, with much dignity, "against your using such a word as 'rescue' with reference to me. I consider that I have been seized and thrown into prison. I do not wish to be unkind; I merely say this in justice to myself, and also to "His Majesty" the King, of whom I was merely the honored guest, with plenty of friends around me."

At this Lopez was struck dumb with vexation. Never could Katie be brought to look upon his really gallant and daring exploit in its proper light. And yet he could not disprove her assertion. He did not know what had been her position here. If the King had really been here, it was, after all, quite possible that she had been, as she said, an honored guest.

"'His Majesty,'" said Katie, in a calm and placid tone, "was most attentive. He did his utmost to alleviate our dulness. He paid us constant visits, and assured us over and over again that our stay was to be but short. Never have I met with one who was more kind, more considerate, and at the same time more lively. Always laughing and cheerful, he seemed more like some well-known friend than the great king of a great country. With us he forgot all the cares of his situation. He was gallant, chivalrous—more, he was even pleased to be merry, and to indulge in many little pleasantries. And now you perceive, Senor Captain, what the real change in my situation has been. It has been from sunshine to gloom; from laughter to tears; from bright and pleasant society to loneliness and despair."

This was putting it strong—very strong indeed, and Lopez felt it in his very soul. He at once gave up any further efforts in this direction. He had nothing more to offer in answer to such a statement as this. He felt it to be a fact that Katie had been happy before he came, and that she was now miserable. Whatever the cause was, there was the unanswerable fact.

He now adopted a severe tone.

"You are aware, senora," said he, "that when I captured this castle there were several prisoners."

Katie nodded.

"I suppose so," said she. "I don't know."

"Very well. Among them was your dear friend—"

"My dear friend? Who? Not 'His Majesty?'"

Lopez laughed bitterly. "How transparent that little trick is," he said to himself.

"By 'your dear friend,'" said he, "I mean, of course, Mr. Ashby."

"Mr. Ashby! Oh!" said Katie.

To tell the truth, by this time Katie had almost forgotten his existence. She seemed to herself to have lived years since last she spoke to Mr. Ashby. So she said, in an indifferent tone,

"Mr. Ashby? Oh!"

Lopez, of course, thought this a part of her assumed indifference, and smiled at his own penetration. He could see through her little arts; and he knew something which would soon force her to tear away her mask.

"He is arrested as a spy," said Lopez, abruptly.

"A spy!" said Katie; "Mr. Ashby a spy! Why, he hasn't been a spy. I don't understand."

"Whether he is one or not," said Lopez, harshly, "will soon appear, as he will be tried by court-martial to-day. In times like these no mercy is shown to spies. The country is swarming with them. They have a short trial, a quick sentence, and a summary execution."

"Still," said Katie, "I don't see how you can make out that Mr. Ashby is a spy."

Katie showed no horror at all, no excitement whatever, and Lopez was proportionally amazed. He had not expected this.

"I can't tell," said he; "the court-martial will deal with him. I dare say he is a spy, and I fully expect that he will be shot."

"Well," said Katie, "I dare say he must be. You seem to hate him so, and you say he has insulted you, so you will take this way of being revenged. All the same, I shouldn't like to deal that way with my enemy. Poor Mr. Ashby! It's very, very sad! Oh, what would "His Majesty" think if he were to hear this!"

Once more Lopez was struck dumb. He had counted with certainty upon producing a strong effect on Katie. By holding Ashby's doom over her head, he hoped to influence her. But this tremendous blow had fallen, and had evidently not been felt. For Ashby and for his fate Katie had nothing but the most commonplace expressions of pity—no horror, no grief, no despair, nothing of the sort.

In fact, so completely overcome was Lopez by this unexpected result of his interview with Katie that he left abruptly.

He was full of wonder. "Is it possible," he thought, "that this is her English stubbornness? Can she have so much of that infernal English stolidity as to be able to conceal so perfectly her deepest feelings? Impossible! Does she love Ashby? She cannot! Does she love anybody? No! Can she love? I don't believe it! What a girl! what a girl! And she seems so gentle, so timid, but in reality she's as bold as a lion, and as fierce as a she-tiger. By heavens! she shall be mine, if she's the Evil One himself.

"And that poor fool Ashby thinks she loves him! Bah! she cares no more for him than she does for me. The idiot! This is a sweeter vengeance for me than anything else. And, by heavens! he shall still be present at our marriage. For married we shall be in spite of fate, even if I have to gain her consent with the muzzle of my pistol against her brow."



CHAPTER XLV.

IN WHICH HARRY ASKS A FAVOR, AND LOPEZ BEGINS TO SEE A LITTLE LIGHT.

While Lopez was thus chafing and fuming he was accosted by Harry.

Harry's position was peculiar, and not particularly enviable. He had been informed that he was a free man, and master of his own actions. Lopez had nothing against him, and by this time had forgotten even his existence. After his deliverance, Harry had gone mooning about, stared at by all in the castle, until at length he had fallen asleep.

In the morning he made a great discovery. This was the fact that his freedom to go was useless, and that he was still a prisoner here—a prisoner, though a voluntary one—a prisoner bound to this place by bonds stronger than iron manacles or walls of stone. These bonds were the feelings which had started up within him before he was aware, and now held him fast tied to Katie. He awoke to feel that his present freedom was far less sweet than his late captivity—that delightful captivity with its stolen interviews, and the sweet thoughts of her who was so near.

And where was she now? He had seen nothing of her. Had she fled? But how, and why, and where would she have fled from him? Had she been captured? But why? Who would capture her? Yet where was she? These were the questions that came thronging upon him to vex his soul and destroy his peace; so that it was for the purpose of finding out something definite about her that he had sought out Lopez.

He looked pale and agitated. Lopez, preoccupied though he was, could not help noticing this, and he thought that Harry must be suffering from anxiety about his friend Ashby. This, however, he immediately found, from Harry's first question, to be a great mistake.

Harry was far from suspecting the state of mind in which Lopez was—how full of love and jealousy and suspicion; how at that very moment he was eager to penetrate into the secret of Katie's heart. In fact, Harry suspected nothing at all, and so was not at all on his guard, but blurted out all his feelings.

"Captain Lopez," he began, "did you see a young English lady here last night—a Miss Westlotorn?"

"Yes," said Lopez.

"Did you? Is she—Did—Is—is—is she in—in the castle?" stammered Harry, in distress and deep agitation.

There was not one expression on Harry's face nor one tremor in his faltering voice that was not instantly marked by Lopez. There seemed in this to be some clue to the mystery.

"She is in the castle," said Lopez.

"Where—when—where?" said Harry, excitedly. "I've been looking for her everywhere. I've gone over the whole castle. I hope she isn't hurt! Is she safe? Did she fall into the hands of the soldiers?"

"She fell into my hands," said Lopez, bluntly.

Harry fastened on him a look of devouring anxiety.

"Did you—Is she—What did—When—that is—is she safe?"

"She is safe," said Lopez.

Harry drew a long breath.

"You see," said he, with a little more composure, "I have felt anxious about her. I have been worried, you know, and I have felt anxious about her—in fact, you know, I have felt anxious about her."

"She is kept out of the way just now," said Lopez, "on account of the riot in the castle and the dread we have of an attack. I don't care about letting the men know she is here."

Harry drew a breath of relief.

"I'm glad," he said.

Another sigh followed. Then he looked wistfully at Lopez.

"Would it be too much to ask—if I were to ask—if you would present me—to—to pay my respects to her, as an old friend?"

"Impossible, senor," said Lopez. "She is with the women; you couldn't visit her. You will be able to pay your respects to her after she reaches Vittoria, or some other place of safety. Until then it is impossible. As for yourself, I hope you are comfortable; and whenever you wish to go you may go."

Harry sighed, and stood as one in a dream.

"I think," said he, "I shall not go—just yet. Perhaps I may wait till the rest are going."

"Good-morning, senor," said Lopez, walking away.

Harry stood rooted to the spot.

As Lopez walked off, he felt that he had got hold of something which might be used against Katie. "Another"—he said to himself—"another poor fool who has become infatuated, like myself, but now the power is mine, and I will use it. Yes; perhaps she herself may feel toward this man something of what I feel toward her. If so—if so—I'll drag the secret out of her. But, by heaven! that poor fool is standing there yet. There's a mad lover for you! Ha, ha! Is he any worse than I have been? Let me see. Suppose I had been taken prisoner as he has been, shut up with her in a castle, then freed; would I not long to see her? Would not liberty be useless without her? That man can't leave his prison-house. She is here—she is here; that's enough. Yet what is she to him? Is not this man Ashby's friend? I saw them meet at the hotel in Burgos as I watched Ashby. They greeted like brothers, and went off together for the night. And he—why, he has fallen in love with his friend's betrothed! his friend's—ha, ha!—betrothed—ha, ha!—and, by Jove! why not? That girl could make a saint fall in love with her. That girl—why she oughtn't to be allowed to go at large, and therefore I've shut her up; and shut up she shall be for the remainder of her days, like a good Spanish wife. But I must have a few more words with my moon-struck lover."

With these thoughts Lopez sauntered back to where Harry was standing, fixed upon the spot where he had left him.

"Pardon, senor," said he, "but it seems to me that you take a deep interest in the senorita. May I ask if she is a relative? In that case some allowance might be made: she might not object to see a relative."

"Oh," said Harry, eagerly, his whole face gleaming with joy, "she will never object to see me. Ask her; ask her. She will be delighted to see me."

At this there were two distinct feelings struggling for the mastery in the breast of the Spaniard; one was exultation at the ready way in which Harry had fallen into his trap; the other was one of jealousy at Harry's easy confidence. He had never felt such confidence at finding a welcome reception from Katie. However, he was now on the right track, and he determined to follow it up.

"Are you a relative of the lady's?" he asked.

"Well, no—not exactly a relative," said Harry.

"Ah! perhaps a connection by marriage?"

"Well, no—not exactly a connection, either—"

"Well, you see, senor, in Spain etiquette is very strict, and our ladies are under more restraint than with you. I must treat this lady in accordance with my own feelings, and a Spanish gentleman would feel as if he were slighting a lady if he were to act out of accordance with Spanish etiquette."

"Oh," said Harry, earnestly, "she is an English lady."

"But I am a Spanish gentleman."

Harry drew a long breath. He was in despair. Oh, how he longed to be Katie's third cousin for a few minutes.

"I am very sorry," said Lopez, "but you see I have to be guided by my own sense of propriety. I suppose you are a very old friend, senor; yet I have been quite intimate with the senorita myself, and never heard her mention your name."

"Well," said Harry, "I have not known her very long."

"She used to speak freely of all her English friends," continued Lopez; "for you see she had not many, having lived so long in Spain; and so I was surprised to hear you speak of her as so intimate a friend."

"Well," said Harry, "my acquaintance with her is not of very long standing."

"You were not acquainted with her at Madrid?" said Lopez.

"No," said Harry, dreamily.

"Nor at Cadiz?" continued Lopez.

"No—not Cadiz."

"Then, senor, you could only have made her acquaintance on this journey," said Lopez, with a smile, which was not merely put on for a purpose. He felt like smiling, so successful had he been in getting at the truth.

Harry looked confused.

"Well, you see, senor, in captivity, or on a journey, people are very much thrown together, and they make friendships very fast."

"Oh yes," said Lopez, "I understand. In short, it amounts to this, that one day of such intercourse, so free, so unconventional, is equal to a whole year, or even a whole lifetime, of the formal intercourse of ordinary social life."

"Well, senor, I am sorry. I came back thinking that you might be some near relative or connection. My own ideas and habits do not allow me to permit what you ask; but the senorita will be her own mistress in time, and then of course she can see whom she chooses."

And now, for a second time, Lopez walked away, thinking that he understood all. Another victim, he thought. And in two or three days: in that time she has turned his head. And does she return his passion? Is she as indifferent to him as she is to me, and to Ashby? I will soon find out.



CHAPTER XLVI.

IN WHICH LOPEZ MAKES A FRESH ASSAULT, AND KATIE BREAKS DOWN UTTERLY.

Once more Lopez called upon Katie: it was about two hours after his last call. This was his third call in one day. She looked surprised and also vexed.

"A little matter has occurred to me," said he, "which I thought I would mention to you, as it ought to be of some concern to you."

"Ah!" said Katie, languidly, as Lopez paused. She seemed to be more indifferent, if possible, than ever; more self-absorbed, and more bored with his society.

"It's about a certain Mr. Rivers," continued Lopez.

It was not without very careful premeditation that Lopez had entered upon this interview, and the result of his thoughts was that he had decided upon introducing this matter in the most abrupt manner possible. But in all his speculations as to the possible effect of this new scheme, he had never imagined anything like the reality as he now witnessed it.

At the mention of that name Katie's manner changed instantly and utterly. From languor, from indifference, and from boredom, she started up erect with wild excitement and terrified interest. In her face there was a perfect anguish of fear and apprehension. Her eyes stared upon him in utter horror; she gasped for breath, and it was not until some time that she could articulate a few words.

"Mr.—Mr.—Rivers!" she gasped. "Did you say—Mr. Rivers?"

However amazed Lopez was at Katie's intensity of excitement, he made no reference to it, and answered in a quiet and matter-of-fact tone.

"He said he was acquainted with you, and wanted to see you."

"To see me? Mr. Rivers?" said Katie, still agitated. "And can—can he—will he—will you let him? Did you consent?"

"Well," said Lopez, "you see, there were reasons—"

"Reasons!" repeated Katie, all tremulously, and in dire suspense—"reasons!" she waited his reply breathlessly. The thought of Harry being in the power of Lopez, of the hate and malignant vengeance which Lopez might pour forth upon his devoted head, had all occurred to her at once at the mention of his name, and still overwhelmed her.

"In Spain, you know," said Lopez, "there is not such freedom of social intercourse between young unmarried ladies and gentlemen as in England, and I did not think that you would feel like violating our Spanish etiquette."

"Spanish etiquette!" cried Katie, with nervous eagerness; "oh, that is nothing—Tell him he may come—he may come; tell him he may come—I shall be most happy to see him—I shall be so glad to see him! I shall—oh, I shall—be—I shall be—oh yes, glad to see him!"

Katie was struggling with intense feeling. Her feelings carried her away completely. Lopez saw this plainly, and felt, as he had felt in Ashby's case, partly triumphant exultation, partly the bitterest jealousy. But he had a careful guard over every exhibition of his own feelings. And yet, in the midst of his exultation, his jealousy, and his efforts at self-control, he marvelled greatly at the intensity of feeling displayed by this girl whom he had believed to be so immovable. And for whom?—for an acquaintance of three days' standing.

"Oh, but you see," said he, "there is something else to prevent, unfortunately."

"Something else!" repeated Katie, in a low, trembling voice: "and unfortunately! did you say unfortunately?"

"I said unfortunately," said Lopez. "You see—I forgot to mention it before, as I did not know that you were acquainted with him—but this Rivers has been arrested as a spy."

This was, of course, untrue; but Lopez was merely trying an experiment on Katie.

The experiment was fearfully successful.

In an instant all that Lopez had said at their last interview about the fate of spies rushed to her mind. Ashby's fate she had regarded with mild pity, but the fate of Rivers seemed to crush her down into the dust.

She clutched the arm of Lopez convulsively with both her hands; she raised up her face—white with horror; she gasped for breath.

"Oh, senor! oh, senor!" she cried, "what is it that you mean? A spy! Harry a spy, and arrested! Oh, you cannot mean it! Say that you do not mean it! Oh, say it—say it!"

She could say no more. Her grasp loosened. She fell back, and, burying her face in her hands, burst into a passion of tears. Sobs convulsed that slender frame. Lopez sat with a bitter smile regarding her.

"You seem to value the life of this Rivers," said he at length, after a long silence.

Katie lifted her face, and regarded him with eyes all red and swollen.

"His life!" she exclaimed, with a shudder—"his life! Ah, that is it! And I see in your face that there is—no—hope. Oh, Harry! oh, Harry, Harry!"

Her voice died away in a low shudder. Lopez himself was moved. He had not been in the least prepared for such an utter break-down as this. Ah! now he saw that Katie could love, and how she could love! At the force of that love all else passed away—pride, shame, hate, all; everything was forgotten except that name, upon which her voice dwelt with such longing.

"Yes," he said, "he is a spy. He is now being tried, or rather, he has been tried—for I may as well tell it—and has been condemned. I need say no more about it; I have already said enough. You know the fate of a condemned spy. Before another hour all will be over."

At first Katie seemed about to faint, but the last sentence roused her. She started up, and again seized his arm with her convulsive grasp. With white, tremulous lips she said, in a low voice which had sunk to a whisper,

"An hour! an hour! Did you say—another hour?"

Lopez bowed his head in silence.

"But you—you—you," said Katie, fiercely—"you do not believe him guilty?"

"I have nothing to do with it," said Lopez, coldly.

"Nothing to do? Are you not commander here?"

"Yes."

"Can you do nothing?" she asked again.

"No. The trial is over. His fate has already been decided; in another hour all will be over."

The repetition of these words roused Katie to a fresh outburst of despairing grief.

"Oh!" said she; "in so short a time! so short!"

"It was because he was so near his doom," continued Lopez, "that the condemned prisoner requested to see you, and I thought I would mention it. Had it not been for this request he would have been shot without your knowing it."

Katie wrung her hands, in a blind passion of despair.

"Oh!" she burst forth, "something must be done! He shall not die! He must not! Oh, heavens! how can I live, and think of it? Harry! Harry! was there no one to speak for you? A spy! It's false! He was a simple traveller. Oh, Captain Lopez, there must be some way of saving him, or at least of deferring his doom. Can it not be put off—for one day?"

"That would be of no avail," said Lopez.

"One day!" pleaded Katie, in eager tones.

"It's useless," said Lopez; "it's impossible. The sentence of the court cannot be revoked."

"But time flies! Oh, Captain Lopez, can you not let him go?"

"Oh yes," said Lopez, "I can do that easily enough. I could let him out, so that he could escape."

At this Katie fell on her knees, and clasped the hands of Lopez.

"Oh, Captain Lopez, I kneel to you! I pray to you! On my knees I pray for his life! Let him fly! Oh, let him fly! Oh, I pray—I pray on my knees!"

Lopez drew a long breath. This scene was terrible to him in many ways; but, above all, it was terrible to see what love was thus lavished on this comparative stranger, when he would risk his life, and had risked his life, for a single smile.

"Think," said he, "what it is that you ask. The moment I let him go, that moment I myself am a criminal, I myself am condemned. I must fly—I must become a ruined man! Ruined? Worse: dishonored, disgraced in my native land; I who have had high ambitions, and have won no mean distinctions. And yet do you ask this of me?"

Katie bowed her head down; she kissed his hands, and in tremulous tones said,

"Oh, I must—I must! I do!"

Lopez was trembling from head to foot. He himself could now scarcely speak from agitation.

"And may I," he said, in a low voice—"may I—ask—nothing from you—when I give up—honor, life, hope, all—for your sake?"

There was a suggestiveness in this question which flashed at once in all its fullest meaning into Katie's mind. She dropped his hands; she sank upon the floor; she bowed her head tremblingly and despairingly. Lopez looked at her with an agitation equal to her own, and a despair only less. She loved another—she could never love him; she loved another—oh, how vehemently, how dearly she loved him! Yet she must be his!

"One hour was allowed him," murmured Lopez—"one hour to prepare. Much of that hour has already passed. Say, will you save his life? and shall I set him free? Say, shall I go to ruin? Say, will you give up as much for me as I am ready to give up for you? Quick—another minute, and it may be too late!"

Katie started up wildly.

"Go! go!" she said, in a hot, feverish whisper. "Haste—fly—save him!"

"You promise?" said Lopez.

"Oh, my God! yes!" cried Katie, and fell senseless to the floor.

"See to your mistress," said Lopez, in a faltering voice, as he went outside and met the attendant there.

Then Lopez went away, not to free Harry, for he was already free, but to a lonely room, where he flung himself on his face on the stony floor, and lay there long, weeping like a child.

For the agony of this man at winning Katie thus was equal to that of Katie over her act of self-sacrifice.



CHAPTER XLVII.

IN WHICH LOPEZ USES HIS ADVANTAGE TO THE UTTERMOST, AND KATIE SINKS INTO DEEPER DESPAIR.

And so Lopez had resolved to gratify both his love and his vengeance. He was determined at all hazards to force Katie to be his wife; and at the same time he would be able to take a sweet and most effective revenge on the hated Ashby. As for this new lover, Rivers, who had so unexpectedly started up, the decision was more difficult. He felt no hate toward him as he did toward Ashby. He had received no insults at his hands. There was in Harry's manner none of that outrageous superciliousness which had made Ashby so detestable. The face of Rivers was of itself one which conciliated all, and his character was visible in his frank, free, and easy manners. With such a man it was almost impossible to quarrel; still, the jealousy of Lopez had been roused at the discovery of Katie's love for Rivers, and for this he felt a resentment. He determined, therefore, to include that young man in his plans, and thought that the simplest and most effective mode of dealing with him would be to invite him also to the wedding. Thus both the lovers should see with their own eyes the end of this affair. Ashby should see it, Rivers also should see it. The prospect was a delightful one, and did much toward restoring Lopez to his equanimity.

"Aha!" he said to himself, as he reached this conclusion—"aha, my tender, cooing doves! how will you like that?"



Another thought, which gave him almost equal delight, was that of the revenge which he would be able to take on Russell. Russell had stirred up his deepest hate. He had insulted him at Madrid, and had put a stop to his attentions to Katie. He had publicly expelled him from the railway-carriage. Had he been Katie's father, Lopez would have felt resentful enough, and would have found it hard to forgive; but as he was merely a guardian, and as Katie had no affection for him, he was under no constraint whatever, and could gratify his revenge without any hinderance. It was to him a most delightful chance which had thrown Russell in his way under such peculiar and ridiculous relations to Rita; and to take advantage of this was a happy thought, which filled him with such exultation that for a time he almost lost sight of the darker and more disheartening side of this affair.

That darker side was the aversion which Katie had evinced toward himself. She had shown it. It was not merely her love for Rivers; it was something like repugnance to himself, which had been evident at their first meeting. The juncture which he considered most favorable to his hopes had evidently been most unfavorable. He had hoped to be received as a deliverer; he had only been viewed as a captor. Her face, her expression, her tears, her agony, were all present evermore to his memory.

He must see her soon. He must press on this marriage at once. Delay would only be worse. His situation here was precarious. If he were to linger too long, the Carlists might rally, and he would be besieged. Before that could happen he must have Katie for his wife, and then retreat as fast as possible. He could not defer the marriage till they reached Vittoria, for then Katie would surely elude him and effect her escape. He concluded that he must be married on the following day at the farthest, and in the morning. To postpone it any longer was not to be thought of.

That evening he visited Katie once more. As he entered and looked at her, he was struck to the heart to see the change that had come over her. She was pale, thin, and haggard. She looked up hastily, with staring eyes. Then she started up and looked, but said nothing. But Lopez reflected that all this was the result of a love for another, and at that thought his pity passed away. He would go on with his work, he thought. He would not be defeated by uureasonable whims, and violent yet fitful gusts of passion.

"He is safe!" said Lopez.

Katie clasped her hands. Her voice now returned, and, casting up her eyes, she ejaculated in low tones,

"Oh, thank Heaven!—but where—where—has he gone?"

Lopez shook his head.

"Not yet," said he; "nor can he go—till your promise is fulfilled."

Katie shuddered.

"Is there—is there—no other way?" she asked, tremulously.

"No," said Lopez. "And the promise must be fulfilled soon."

"Soon!" said Katie, with white lips.

"I will explain," said Lopez. "I am in danger here in many ways—enemies all around. The moment that Rivers is released I am a ruined man. I too must fly; but you must accompany me. So the moment that Rivers is free you must be mine. Our marriage must take place at once."

"At once!" cried Katie, with a look of horror. "Oh heavens!"

Lopez drew a deep breath. This aversion of Katie toward himself was horrible.

"Or else," continued Lopez, "in the event of your refusal—"

"What? what?"

"Rivers is a prisoner yet. He has been reprieved—that is all. The court did not decide."

"A prisoner—yet!" repeated Katie.

"He cannot go," said Lopez, "till we are married."

"Oh heavens!"

"Till then he is in the greatest possible peril; till then he is only safe by the most violent exercise of arbitrary authority on my part. Some of my followers are intensely excited: all are mutinous: they clamor for his death. They look at me with sinister faces and low muttered execrations. With these fierce, implacable spirits how can he be safe? I am not safe myself. The moment I set him free I dare not remain behind. I cannot go—I will not go—without you. His life depends on you. My men cannot be long restrained. I myself have had to tell them that it is only for twenty-four hours."

"Oh heavens!" cried Katie, in even deeper anguish.

"Before that time is up he must go—yes, long before—so as to be well on his journey, out of reach of these fierce enemies. I must go soon after he does. I cannot go alone—I cannot give up everything. If I give up ambition for your sake, it is only fair that I should satisfy my love."

"Love!" cried Katie. "Oh! Love! How can you talk of love!"

"Love!" said Lopez, bitterly. "No one ever felt it so painfully as I."

Katie was silent. She turned away, wringing her hands.

"Do you wish his life?"

"His life? Oh heavens! am I not ready to lay down my life for him?"

"Lay down your life?" repeated Lopez. "That is not wanted. No! You have yet a long life to live in love and happiness."

"Never!" said Katie, vehemently. "There is no love or happiness in life now for me. I love him—I love him, and him only! Oh, how I love him!"

Lopez gave a sneering laugh.

"Pardon me, you are too facile in your loves, senorita, to talk in that strain. You love so easily that you will probably have many love-affairs in your happy future. You loved Ashby, and in a day or two you declare yourself ready to die for Rivers!"

This was a bitter taunt, but Katie's distress was so deep that she did not feel it.

"Oh, I never knew love before!" said she. "I thought I loved Mr. Ashby; but I was mistaken—I never loved him. It was nothing; I was inexperienced. I didn't understand—I didn't know. But I know now. Oh, I know all now—all!"

Lopez felt rather pleased at Katie's declaration about Ashby. He did not believe her altogether. He believed that she had loved him, but had forgotten him while flirting with another. If she had forgotten Ashby so readily, she would also forget Rivers with equal readiness, and say quite as boldly that she had never loved Rivers. This passion was a sudden whim—it was no more than a dream; she was hardly in her right mind, she was infatuated. Of course she would get over it. And he determined to use his advantages to the utmost. So he returned to the subject.

"You see," said he, "as long as Rivers is here, he is subject to the most deadly peril. He is even now in danger. Do you wish to save him?"

"Oh heavens!" cried Katie. "I do! I do!"

"Well, then, you must do as I have said."

Katie moaned.

"Will you?"

"Oh, let me wait! I'll promise anything—everything; but, for Heaven's sake, let me wait—only a little, little time! Oh, senor, on my knees I fall—I pray, as I would pray to Heaven, give me time—time—time! only a little—only a very, very little!"

Katie knelt; she put her palms together; she looked up, as in prayer, to this mighty tyrant who held over her such power. Lopez could not endure the sight: it filled him with tender pity, with grief, with remorse. He began to yield.

Instinctively he bent down and took her in his arms. He was about to grant her everything. He was about to tell her, with tears, that he would grant her years, if she would only promise to try to love him.

But Katie misunderstood his action. The touch of his arms was enough—it was too much! She tore herself away, and stood shuddering and weeping.

Lopez felt that gesture of loathing and aversion cut like a knife to his inmost being. At once all tenderness, all pity, departed. He determined to have no more of this trifling.

"Listen!" said he, coldly. "By saving Rivers I destroy myself. You must be my wife. I must then fly—do you hear?—fly from Spain, from my country, from all I have loved: I must be an exile. This is all for you. Think of all that I give up for you! I cannot postpone. If I postpone, my people will kill Rivers and myself too. The life of Rivers depends on you alone."

Katie said not a word. She was helpless.

"To-morrow, early," said Lopez, "you must be mine. Rivers shall be then set free."

Without waiting for any further words, Lopez bade her adieu, and retired.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

HOW LOPEZ GOES TO SEE THE PRIEST ABOUT HIS MARRIAGE.

After leaving Katie, Lopez decided to give notice to the priest about the nature of the ceremony that was to be performed, and also to appoint the time for its performance on the following morning.

As he entered the room Talbot saw in his face the sign of some important purpose. At once she divined it. She had already made up her mind as to what that service would be that Lopez expected of her, and what her own action should be. Brooke also, in spite of his plausible arguments, was afraid that she was only too near the truth, and such terrors gathered around the prospect that he could not think of it. But now all suspense was at an end. The truth was about to be made known, and, whatever it was, they would have to face it.

"Senor," said Lopez, addressing himself to Brooke, yet courteously including Talbot in his glance, "I have now come to tell you why I have required thus far the company of your friend the priest, and you may explain to him what I have to say. It is for a very simple and pleasing ceremony—namely, a marriage."

"A marriage!" repeated Brooke, in a low voice.

That word, sometimes so full of joyous meaning and so surrounded with associations of mirth and festivity, now rang in Brooke's ears with a sound as harsh and terrible as that of a death-knell. It was the word which he dreaded more than all others to hear from the lips of Lopez. His heart sank within him, and he knew not what to think, or where to turn for hope. That Talbot would refuse to perform this ceremony he felt convinced, but what would be the consequences of such a refusal under such circumstances?

"The priest," continued Lopez, who had not noticed any difference in Brooke's manner, and was not at all aware of the intense agitation which now pervaded all his frame—"the priest will be ready to perform the ceremony at an early hour to-morrow morning."

"To-morrow morning!" repeated Brooke, mechanically.

Worse and worse! This man was hurrying matters so that he did not leave any time for thought, much less for action. To-morrow morning, at an early hour! Oh, terrible haste! Oh, fearful flight of time! "Was there, then, so short a time until this new ordeal, with its new dangers? Brooke shuddered.

A sudden thought now came to him, at which he grasped eagerly. It was utterly useless, and he knew it, but it was all that he had to offer against this man's resolution.

"Can the priest officiate without the government license?"

"Government license!" repeated Lopez. "Of course. The Church does not ask permission of the State to perform the solemn sacraments. What has the State to do with the acts of a priest of the Church?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Brooke, dejectedly; "it's different in other countries."

"Spain," said Lopez, severely—"Spain is a Christian country."

"True—true; I forgot," said Brooke.

"In an infidel country," continued Lopez, "like England or America, the State regulates marriage, of course; but it is different in Spain—very different."

Brooke scarcely heard this. He was groping about mentally in search of an idea. Another one came—a hopeless one, like the last—but he caught at it, since there was nothing else to do.

"This priest," said he, "is an Englishman."

"Well!" said Lopez, with a slight expression of surprise.

"I didn't know but that it might make some difference," said Brooke, meekly.

"Difference! How?"

"Not—not knowing your language, you know."

"My language!" said Lopez; "what does that matter? He has the language of the Church, and that language every priest uses in the formulas and services of the Church, whether he is a Spaniard, or an Englishman, or an African negro. He celebrates the sacraments in the words laid down by the Church, and the languages of the various nations have nothing to do with these holy rites. I fear, senor, you are raising objections which will seem as strange and unreasonable to your friend, this good priest, as they do to me."

At this Brooke was struck dumb. He had nothing more to say.

"You will tell your friend," said Lopez, "to be ready at an early hour to-morrow morning. I also will do myself the honor, senor, to invite you to give us the pleasure of your company on this occasion."

Brooke bowed, and murmured something about the consciousness which he had of the honor that Lopez had done him; and in the midst of these commonplaces Lopez retired.

After his departure Brooke remained silent for a long time. Talbot feared the worst, and as she had divined already the meaning of this visit, she understood perfectly the feelings of Brooke. So she said not a word, but patiently waited until he chose to speak. At length he told her all.

"I thought so," said Talbot.

"What will you do?" asked Brooke, in a low voice.

"Nothing," said Talbot, simply.

"Nothing?" repeated Brooke. "What can I do?"

"Can you not do what he requests?" asked Brooke, in a trembling voice.

"What! and marry them?"

"Why not?"

"It is impossible!" said Talbot, firmly.

"Oh heavens!" moaned Brooke, in a tone of despair.

"Oh, Brooke, do not talk like that!" said Talbot, entreatingly. "Have I not already said all that can be said?"

"Well," said Brooke, "listen to reason for a moment. Only think what marriage is. It is a union of two loving hearts. In Scotland people marry themselves. Why cannot you do in Spain what you might safely do in Scotland?"

"Yes," said Talbot, "and in Turkey a man may marry a hundred wives. Why may not you do in Spain what you may safely do in Turkey? Oh, Brooke! Brooke! Are you altogether candid now, and true to your better self? Do not tempt me, Brooke. Do not try to shake me. My mind is clear on this point. I cannot do wrong, not even to please yon, Brooke."

As Talbot said this she looked at Brooke with a glance that penetrated to his soul. Her eyes showed unfathomable tenderness and devotion, yet her face and her voice told of a resolve that was immutable.

Then Brooke tried another tone.

"Confound these Spaniards!" he cried. "Talbot! Talbot! Come, why not marry this couple of cursed fools and have done with it?"

Of these words Talbot took no notice whatever. She was silent for a time and thoughtful. Then she went on to speak:

"I know. I begin, I think, to understand all about it. The girl he means to marry is this English girl, the daughter of Mrs. Russell. Captain Lopez loved her, as we were told. He has followed her here, and effected her deliverance from her Carlist captors, and now, as a matter of course, she feels grateful to him and is willing to marry him. But how can I do anything? I cannot. It is horrible sacrilege. It is frightful sin. No; I will tell him the whole truth."

Brooke looked at her with a face of anguish.

"Oh, Talbot," said he, "if you do, what will become of you?"

"What?" said Talbot, in a firm voice.

"He will kill you—and worse than that," said Brooke.

"Why should he kill me?" said Talbot. "It will do him no good. What cause will he have to kill me?"

"I have thought it all over," said Brooke, "all over, a thousand times. I have speculated as to the possible result of a frank disclosure, and I've come to the conclusion that it is better to run every risk in this disguise, and go even to the verge of death, rather than divulge your secret now."

"Divulge my secret!" said Talbot, in surprise. "And why not? What is there to divulge? I have only to say that I am not a priest—I am an English lady, who have assumed this disguise as a safeguard."

Brooke sighed.

"It's too late, too late! Oh, fool that I was—cursed, cursed fool! But I was afraid to trust those Republicans; I feared that they might harm you if they knew you to be a woman. It was for your sake that I kept your secret, and now it has turned out to be the very worst thing that I could have done."

"I deny that it was the worst," said Talbot, calmly. "Thus far it has protected me most effectively. As for the future, we have yet to choose our plans."

"Too late!" said Brooke.

"I do not think so," said Talbot. "You do not give any reasons. At any rate, I will try—"

"Do not! do not!" said Brooke, earnestly. "It is too late. I will tell you. You see, this deception has gone on so long, and his trust in you is so profound, that the shock would be more than he could bear. As a priest you have won his confidence, even his reverence. If you now tell him that it was all a cheat, his wrath would burst forth beyond all bounds. He would consider it an outrage on his holiest and most generous feelings. He would believe that you had wantonly trifled with all that is most sacred and most sensitive in the heart. Then there is more than this. For some reason he is bent on marrying this girl. If you refuse now, and tell him the truth, it will only intensify his resentment against you, and turn it into a vengeful fury. There is no pain that he will not inflict. There will be nothing too horrible for his revenge. He will say that you deceived and cheated him unnecessarily and persistently; that even if there was a necessity for it in the first place, you might at least have confided in him after he had shown himself so merciful to me. He will say that you must have found him out to be a chivalrous gentleman, in whose protection you would have been safe, and this maintenance of your disguise all this time and up to the last moment was a mockery and a sham. And therefore," concluded Brooke, "every other resource ought first to be tried, and this should not be made use of till all others have failed. It will be useless at any time, but if it is made use of at all, it ought to be last of all."

"Well, I don't know," said Talbot, doubtfully. "I will do as you say, Brooke; but to go on in this way, and keep up this disguise till the last, seems to me to involve certain destruction. I suppose he cannot be persuaded to postpone the marriage."

Brooke shook his head despondingly.

"No," said he, "that is impossible. There is some strong reason for this haste. He has, perhaps, extorted some promise from the girl. Perhaps she does not love him. Perhaps he is afraid if he gives her time that she will back out of it, and is determined to marry her while he has the chance."

"If that is the case," said Talbot, "it only makes it worse for me. If she does not love him, and all this is as you say, there is another and a stronger reason for my refusal to have anything to do with such sacrilege and sin."

"Oh, Talbot!" said Brooke. He turned his face toward her. It was a face of agony; there was despair in his look. "Oh, Talbot! I could bear this trial, any trial, for myself; but for you—for you, Talbot," he continued, in thrilling tones, "for you I cannot bear it. Think! Can you not do something?"

Talbot trembled. Her eyes filled with tears. For a time she stood thus with quivering lips and trembling hands, struggling with her emotion, and without much success. When she was able at last to speak it was in tremulous, broken tones.

"Oh, Brooke!" she said, "for your sake I would do anything, anything; but I cannot, even for your sake, do wrong to others. For you—if it were myself alone that were concerned—I might be tempted to do an act of sacrilege—or sin. Ask me to suffer for you, Brooke, and I will suffer: oh, how gladly! Yes, Brooke," she continued, in a voice that sent a thrill through all his being—"yes, Brooke, ask me to die for you, or let the chance arise in which I may die to save you, and I will die. But do not look at me so, Brooke! do not look at me so! Your face is full of despair; your look is the look of one whose heart is breaking; and this, Brooke, this seems worse than death! Be yourself, Brooke! rouse yourself! Cannot you take refuge in some other thoughts? The very worst of your songs might rouse you now. Sing, Brooke—sing anything. Talk nonsense, and save your heart and mine from breaking!"

Brooke turned away, and walked up and down for a few minutes, while he struggled to regain his composure. The struggle was a severe one, but he succeeded in assuming an outward calm. He at length returned, and, placing himself before Talbot, gave that short laugh of his, and said, with some of his old rattle,

"Well, Talbot lad, you're more than half right. And, as I've always said, there's nothing like a good song—and I've lots of good songs; but as you suggest a bad song—in fact, the worst of all my songs—why, I dare say it wouldn't be a bad idea to sing it. By-the-bye, Talbot, you ought to learn to sing—at least, to hum tunes. I'll teach you how to whistle, if you like. I wonder if this Spanish cur likes music. I'll sing you a song, if you like, and I'll bet ten cents you never heard it before."

And Brooke sang, to a most extraordinary tune, these most extraordinary words:

"Oh, a raggedy gang to the piper danced, Of tatterdemalions all, Till the corpulent butler drove them off Beyond the manor wall. The raggedy piper shook his fist: 'A minstrel's curse on thee, Thou lubberly, duck-legg'd son of a gun, For settin' dorgs on we!'"

"Brooke," said Talbot, with her usual calm, sad face, "I'm glad that you are singing, though your song is certainly slightly vulgar."

"Oh, I know it," said Brooke; "but then vulgarity is sometimes a very good thing. It don't do for people to be too fastidious. The fact is, this age is over-refined, and I'm bound to reform it, or perish."



CHAPTER XLIX.

HOW LOPEZ INVITES HARRY TO HIS WEDDING, AND HOW HARRY MAKES A DISTURBANCE.

On the following day the prisoners were roused at dawn. First of all, Ashby was taken to the room in which the marriage ceremony was to be performed, which was the same room where the Russell party had been confined. Half a dozen soldiers came for him, and went through the solemn mockery of treating him as an invited guest. He had scarcely arrived here when Harry also reached the place. A special invitation from Lopez to be present at a wedding had attracted him, and filled him with wonder and curiosity. His anxiety about Katie, and his longing to see her, were as strong as ever, and the effect of these feelings was manifest in his pale face and agitated manner; but his desire to please Lopez and retain his good-will had drawn him here to be a spectator, though his abstracted air showed that his thoughts were elsewhere. Thus, silent and preoccupied, Harry stood apart; and Ashby, mindful of their recent hostile meeting, kept to himself, and made no motion toward holding any communication whatever.

As they stood thus, a third comer appeared upon the scene.

This was Russell. He still wore his woman's dress, having a vague idea that it might prove of service in some new attempt to escape, though quite unable to imagine any way in which such escape could be possible. Harry, attracted by this singular figure, looked at him, and recognized him at once, and the effect upon him was so strong that, in spite of his melancholy, he burst into a roar of laughter.

Russell, at this, threw toward him a piteous look of appeal, and then approached him, in search after sympathy. The two were soon engaged in conversation, while Ashby, whom this ludicrous figure had very forcibly affected, stood aloof watching him, with a smile on his face which he was unable to repress.

The unhappy Russell, full of horror at the prospect before him, still clung to some vague and undefined hopes that at the very last moment some chance might intervene to prevent the terrible tragedy of a marriage with Rita. The appearance of Harry seemed a good omen. He hailed it as such; and had an angel appeared, the sight could scarcely have afforded more joy to the virtuous Russell than that which he felt at the sight of Harry.

While these two were conversing, Brooke appeared, followed by Talbot. Harry's back was turned to the door, so that he did not see Talbot, and Talbot did not see his face.

But even if Harry's face had been full before her, she would not have seen it. With a slow step, a face pale as marble, and eyes fixed on the floor, deep in thoughts which were far, far removed from this room and its surroundings, Talbot entered, following Brooke, who was as blind to the assembled company and as deeply preoccupied as herself. Before each there was a terrible ordeal. As for Talbot, she was to be the central figure, and how could she perform her part? For Talbot it was a simple matter to sum up the whole situation. She could either consent or refuse. But for Brooke there was a harder task. It was for him to try to discover some way of saving a friend, whom to save was an impossibility. And so all that Talbot suffered was likewise suffered by Brooke, who, in addition, had his own peculiar sufferings to bear, while Talbot, in addition to her own sufferings, was afflicted still more by the full knowledge of all that Brooke was undergoing.

While Harry was talking with Russell he threw a casual glance around, and caught the outline of Talbot's figure. He saw—what? Only the priest, as he thought. It was enough for him. A mere priest was a profoundly uninteresting personage. His eyes saw no deeper than the external dress, and he went on talking with Russell.

Two or three more soldiers now came in, until at length there were about a dozen. All the other soldiers were outside. At any other time this unusual ceremony would have attracted a few idle gazers; but just now all the rest of the men were intent upon the important business of breakfast, which was just being ladled out to each from a huge caldron.

Now Rita entered, and with her came Katie, leaning feebly on her arm.

Lopez followed.

At the sight of these two women Russell and Harry stopped their conversation abruptly. For each one the sight was an overwhelming sensation. To Russell it was as though his last hour had come. Here was his persecutor, his tormentor, who was resolved to marry him whether he would or not. He had confided his griefs to Harry, but had been unable to obtain from him any satisfactory advice. What should he do? He could not say; he could not even think. Could he dare to say "No," when Lopez and Rita and the priest and all the soldiers expected "Yes?" Could he face the awful result of disobedience to Lopez, of defiance to Rita? His whole nature shrank back in terror from the thought, and prompted him, in this dire emergency, of two evils to choose the least.

To Harry, also, the sight of Katie was equally overwhelming. He was struck dumb. He stood rooted to the spot, while wonder, suspicion, and fear all struggled together within him.

What was the meaning of all this? A marriage?—a marriage of this Spanish captain? With whom? Who was the bride? What was Katie doing here? And why was Katie coming here in such a manner, with downcast eyes, death-pale face, and drooping, trembling figure, scarce able to walk, and leaning so heavily upon the arm of this Spanish woman? Such were the questions which Harry, in his bewilderment, asked himself and could not answer. To see Katie thus was like the stroke of a thunder-bolt, and he was dumb with wonder. She came with no word, no smile, no look for him; she came like a helpless victim destined for the sacrifice.

Ashby also saw all of this! He had felt already the extremest bitterness toward Katie, yet the sight of her now was powerful enough to awaken within him the deepest pity. What was the meaning of this? Was Katie the bride? Was she about to marry Lopez? Was this the revenge which Lopez had planned? It was manifestly so; and yet why had Katie consented? He could not understand it. It seemed like a fresh proof of her frivolity and falsity; and at such an exhibition he felt bewildered. She had been false to him for the sake of Rivers; was she also false to Rivers for the sake of Lopez?

And yet, in spite of such thoughts as these, Ashby was full of pity for her. He could not help it. And justly so; for hard indeed must that heart have been which could have remained unmoved at such a sight. Never was a bride seen more despairing. There was agony in her face, and in her attitude, and in her gestures. It was not a bride that he saw; it was a victim. It was an altar of sacrifice upon which Katie was to be offered up—not an altar of love.

And thus Ashby, like Harry, stood overwhelmed at this unexpected sight.

Harry felt an almost irrepressible impulse to spring forward and greet her, but something there was in her look which deterred him. It was her face of despair, her attitude of utter weakness and prostration, her downcast eyes, her averted look. He could not move; he was petrified. There came over him something like a feeling of horror. He shuddered at the sight. All his thoughts and all his soul were fixed on her, while he kept asking himself, What is this? What does it mean? A marriage? And is this the bride—Katie?

Meanwhile Lopez had taken up a position at the upper end of the room, and, looking around with a sarcastic smile, began to make a few remarks:

"Senors," said he, "I have done myself the honor of requesting your company on this occasion, so as to have your presence on the happiest moment of my life, on the joyful moment when I am to be united in the holy bonds of matrimony to one whom I have long loved, and whom I have at last won by rescuing her from a fearful peril. I shall expect your warmest congratulations; but however warm they may be, they cannot be adequate to the occasion that calls them forth."

At this speech Harry stood transfixed. Then his whole nature and aspect changed instantly and utterly. His face grew death-white, there glowed a burning spot on each cheek, and his eyes, as he stared at Lopez, blazed with the fury of a madman.

"Senor," said he, feverishly and in a loud voice, "who is the lady?"

Lopez smiled scornfully, and took Katie's cold hand in his.

"This," said he, "is the lady—my chosen bride."

Scarce was the action done, scarce were the words spoken, when Harry's hand, quick as lightning, had plunged into his breast pocket and snatched forth a revolver. In an instant it was levelled. Lopez saw the act, and with rapid presence of mind dropped Katie's hand and flung himself flat on the floor.

At the same instant two shots in immediate succession came from Harry's revolver. In another instant Lopez was on his feet, and had bounded against his assailant. A fierce struggle followed. Harry hurled Lopez to the floor; but the soldiers rushed up, and those without, hearing the noise, hurried in. All was the wildest confusion, in the midst of which was Harry struggling like a wild beast with overpowering numbers. He was at length held fast by the fierce soldiers, who wished to kill him on the spot, but were restrained by Lopez.

"Tie his hands behind him," he cried, in a loud voice, "and leave him here. Don't hurt him. It's nothing at all. It's all a mistake."

But amidst the crowd of those who rushed upon Harry, Katie, with a wild scream, had flung herself; and as they now retreated at the command of their leader, she caught her prostrate lover in her arms, and fainted. Lopez dragged her away rudely. Harry, with his hands tied behind him, rose up and looked all around in despair.

Amidst that wild uproar, Talbot had been roused from her deep abstraction. She looked up, and as the struggle subsided she saw rising full before her out of the crowd of combatants the face of Harry Rivers. She recognized it, and there came over her heart a cold shudder, followed by a dark despair, in comparison with which her late troubles now seemed trivial.

For this was Harry Rivers, the man for whose sake she had come to Spain!



CHAPTER L.

HOW LOPEZ INVITES THE PRIEST TO MARRY HIM, AND HOW THE PRIEST MAKES A DISTURBANCE.

All was wild confusion.

Katie had fainted, and Rita was endeavoring to bring her back to consciousness. Russell stood amazed and bewildered. His chief fear now was one of being implicated in this mad outbreak of Rivers, who had been his companion in the train and in the castle, and might be taken as his confidant.

Talbot stood staring at Harry in wonder and in dark perplexity. Harry, however, saw her not; but thought only of Katie, whom he had failed to save. Struggles now were useless. He could only fall back on despair.

Brooke noticed a new expression on Talbot's face, and marvelled, but thought it merely arose from natural wonder or natural sympathy with this unhappy man, who by his madness had rushed upon his doom.

Ashby meanwhile stood calm. He saw and understood the act of Harry and Katie. He wondered somewhat to find that their acquaintance had gone so far. He knew that both had been false to him, but had no idea that either had grown to feel such passionate love for the other. And there came over him a passing feeling of jealous anger, together with a natural indignation at the baseness of these two—the one his love, the other his friend—who had both betrayed him. So he looked with cold complacency upon their woes, and thought that they were both receiving such severe retribution that he had no need for further revenge.

Lopez, having seen that Harry's hands were firmly bound, turned to Katie, who at length came to her senses, and looked all around with a shudder. He was anxious to soothe her, so as to finish the ceremony.

"Be calm," he said, in a low whisper, "for his sake. He may even yet be saved—I swear it. If you perform your promise I will forgive him. As you value your life, control yourself. If these men understand how it is, they will kill him on the spot."

At these words Katie shuddered the more, and with a violent effort attained to something like calmness. She then stood up, more tremulous and weak than ever, and stood thus, leaning upon Rita, without daring to encounter Harry's look.

"The ceremony shall go on," said Lopez, aloud. "This fool's-play shall not stop it."

"Keep calm," he whispered to Katie; "his life now depends on you altogether."

Harry still stood there, with soldiers around him, his hands bound, his face bloodless, but with the eyes of a madman.

"Senor," said Lopez, coolly, "I had no idea that you were a lunatic. You must submit to temporary restraint."

Harry made no reply. He looked all around, as though trying to see if there might be any signs of sympathy in the faces of the others, as though seeking in his despair for some faint ray of hope. He saw the cold sneer of Ashby; he saw the fierce frown of Lopez; he saw the trembling figure of Russell; he saw the anxious face of Brooke; and then, last of all, he saw—Talbot!



This was the first time that he had got a sight of her face. In that instant, in spite of her disguise, there came in one flash the recognition of the whole truth. He saw that she had been lost—had been captured—had put on this disguise. At this discovery there followed within him nothing less than a complete paralysis of thought and feeling. In the shock of his sudden amazement he could only ejaculate in half-audible tones the one word—"Sydney!"

Lopez heard this, but did not understand it. He wondered why Harry should exhibit such emotion at the sight of the priest, but hastily concluded that it was some more of his wild and insane excitement over this marriage ceremony.

Brooke heard it, and stared in bewilderment first at one and then at the other.

Talbot stood as before. She moved not, she spoke not, she was stolid and stiff, like a statue of ice; but there was in her face a new horror—it was the face of one who sees a ghost.

To both of these it was a terrible moment. For Talbot saw Harry, and Harry saw Talbot, and each recognized the other fully, though neither ventured to address the other. This, then, was the meeting of those two who had once loved and exchanged vows; who had suffered and rejoiced together; who had parted in sorrow, and looked forward to a reunion with joy; who but a short time since had desired nothing so much as the sight of each other; this was their meeting and thus it took place, at the very climax of that new and more passionate love which had been conceived by each for another!

Had Harry only recognized her a few minutes before, the sight would have effectually chilled his hot blood and saved him from his mad assault on Lopez. He was calm enough now, however, and this was quite sufficient for the latter.

"Senor," said he, "you deserve to be shot on the spot without mercy, but out of regard for this lady and at her solicitation I spare you. And now, senor priest, let the ceremony begin, for this lady seems feeble."

Lopez waited, expecting Brooke to translate this to Talbot.

Brooke hesitated.

Lopez, in surprise, repeated his words. "Why do you not interpret?" he added.

It was the crisis of Talbot's fate. How could Brooke decide? Why should he interpret at all? Should he do this? No; better draw upon himself the wrath of Lopez. And yet what could he accomplish by a refusal to interpret? These other prisoners could act. They understood Spanish as well as English. Such were the questions in Brooke's mind, and he could not decide.

Suddenly the decision on this matter was taken away altogether, and adopted by Talbot herself. She would not let the vengeful wrath of Lopez fall on Brooke or on any other than herself. She understood his feelings fully, and therefore, to put an end to all suspense, she took the matter in her own hands.

She therefore came close up to Lopez, and fixed her large, dark, solemn eyes sternly yet mournfully upon his. Her face bore witness to a resolution that was immutable. Lopez could read its expression and see all that was in her mind.

She pointed to Katie, then to herself, and then to him. Then looking fixedly at him, she shook her head violently and with emphasis, and then hurled the breviary upon the floor. The act and the expression were more eloquent than words. Lopez understood all perfectly. His eyes flashed with just indignation, and a savage smile came over his face.

"Oho, senor priest," said he; "so you think that because I have once or twice restrained my anger, that I can be set at defiance with impunity! I'm tired of being magnanimous; so let me tell you that however merciful I have been before, I will show none now. You must go on. I will allow of no hesitation. Tell him that," he added, to Brooke.

"He says," said Brooke, "that you must obey."

Talbot scarcely heard this.

She never moved her eyes from Lopez; she simply shook her head, with her immutable resolve as visible as ever. Lopez could see that the priest, for some motive or other, was bent on self-sacrifice.

He took out his watch. "I'll allow five minutes," said he, "for decision. If at the end of that time you refuse, I will blow out your brains with my own hand. Tell him that."

"Senor captain," said Brooke, impetuously, "let me say one word."

"Translate for me, I say!"

"One word first."

"Not one—obey me!" cried Lopez, in fury.

"Senor captain," said Brooke, not heeding him, "this is a priest. It is a matter of conscience."

"Silence!" roared Lopez. "Tell him what I said. His time will soon be up!"

Brooke turned to Talbot.

"He'll only give you five minutes, Talbot," said he. "I'll try to dissuade him."

"No use, Brooke," said Talbot, mournfully. "I came prepared for this."

Brooke turned again to Lopez.

"The priest says that his vows forbid him to blaspheme the holy sacrament of marriage in this way. He says he will die rather than risk his soul by an act of sacrilege."

"A curse on his soul!" cried Lopez. "What do I care!"

"Look out for your own soul!" cried Brooke.

"Aha! are you too a priest? Beware, sir! your life is already in peril."

At this moment Harry cried out in a loud voice,

"Stop, Captain Lopez—stop, for God's sake! This is a mistake—a terrible mistake."

Lopez turned round in a fury.

"Gag that devil!" he roared.

In a moment the soldiers had seized Harry and bound a bandage over his mouth, by which they effectually stopped any further remarks.

The last chance yet remained which Brooke might seize for Talbot—it was to divulge her secret and tell about her disguise. To divulge it to this euraged and furious chieftain might now only render him ten times more furious and vengeful; it might only aggravate the doom of the prisoner; but the risk must be run.

"Stop!" cried Brooke. "Senor captain, listen. It's a mistake—She is—"

"Silence," roared Lopez, "or I'll blow your brains out!"

"Senor, this priest is not—"

"Seize this fellow!" yelled Lopez. "Bind him! Gag him!"

Several of the men sprang toward Brooke, who struggled madly, shouting at the same time words which soon were drowned in the uproar that followed.

Lopez now snatched a rifle from one of his men. Katie gave a loud scream; Russell fell on his knees; Ashby shuddered.

Lopez took deadly aim at Talbot.

"Your time is up!" he said, coolly.

Talbot stood motionless, with a face of marble and an attitude perfectly rigid; not a nerve quivered as she looked into the muzzle of the rifle, but her lips moved as if she were murmuring a prayer.



CHAPTER LI.

IN WHICH AN INTERRUPTION OCCURS IN A MARRIAGE CEREMONY.

Talbot stood; the rifle was levelled at her; Lopez had taken deadly aim; his finger was on the trigger; she felt that her last hour had come, and that naught could avail her now but prayer.

Brooke was struggling like a madman. Two of the soldiers had been hurled to the floor; another was clinging to his neck; a fourth was savagely trying to gouge out his eyes.

Lopez pulled the trigger. The report rang through the hall.

At that very instant, as the fire and smoke went flashing and blazing at Talbot—or rather, the very instant before—a figure dashed toward her. It was Brooke. By one supreme and convulsive effort he had torn himself away from his assailants, and with one great bound had flung himself at Talbot. At the rush which he made she fell backward, and the next instant Brooke fell upon her. Talbot then struggled up to her feet, and through the dense clouds of smoke reached down to raise up Brooke. He was senseless.

With a low moan like the cry of a suffering animal, Talbot threw herself upon the senseless form. From his forehead there trickled several streams of blood which fell to the floor in a pool. She pressed her lips again and again to the wound, and then through the dense smoke she rose and looked around, confronting Lopez with the blood of Brooke's wounds staining all her face. It was a face beautiful in its marble whiteness as the face of a statue of Athena; yet terrible in the fixed and stony horror of its eyes, and in the blood-streaks that covered it, and in the incarnate hate of its expression—terrible in all this as the Gorgon face of Medusa.



Lopez shrank back: his vengeance was satisfied, his fury had all subsided, and there flashed through every nerve a thrill of horror. It was then to him as though the dead—the priest whom he had just slain—had sprung up by an immediate resurrection from death to punish him for such atrocious sacrilege. All the superstition of his Spanish nature now rolled in one wave over his soul, overwhelming it with panic fear. The dead! the dead! he thought—the priest with the angel face—murdered because he would not sin—it was he! But the angel face was now the awful head of a haunting and avenging demon.

And now at this very instant, while the smoke was still hanging in dense folds half-way between floor and ceiling; while Brooke still lay in his blood; while Talbot still glared in fury upon Lopez; at this very moment there arose a wild cry—sudden, menacing, irresistible—by which the whole face of the scene was changed.

"Viva el Rey!"

Such was the cry that now sounded out in the midst of the amazed Republicans. There was a rush and a trample. Then followed the thunder of rifles, and through the smoke dusky figures were visible, rushing to and fro.

Once again, once more, and again, and yet again, report after report rang out. All the room was dense with smoke, and in that thick darkness nothing was visible; but voices yelled in fear, and other voices shouted in triumph; while far above all sounded the war-cry, "Viva el Rey!" "Down with the rebels!" "No quarter!"

Shrieks arose in the hall without. Then cries followed—"Treason! treason! We are betrayed! Fly! fly!" These words were screamed in the shrill tones of a woman. The terror of that cry communicated itself to all. A universal trample and a rush succeeded, and the whole band of Republicans, in mad panic, fled away.

Out they went, that panic-stricken band, into the court-yard, and out through the gates, and afar away through the open country, each one seeking his own safety, and hearing in his disordered fancy the sound behind him of hot pursuit. There was no pursuit—no enemy followed close behind; but in that crowd of panic-stricken fugitives each heard the swift rush and the quick trampling footfalls of all the rest; and as none dared to look back, so all continued to run; and so they ran, and ran, and ran, and they have probably been keeping it up ever since, unless, indeed, they thought better of it, and concluded to stop and rest.

The reason why there was no pursuit is a very simple one. The fact is, the attacking force amounted to no more than six, these six being no others than our friends the imprisoned Carlists, headed by the intrepid, the ardent, the devoted, the plucky little Spanish maid Dolores. She had contrived to pick up some stray arms and ammunition with which she had supplied her Carlist friends, and, waiting for some opportune moment, had made a sudden rush, like Gideon upon the Midianites, with the startling results above described.

But let us on with our story.

The smoke rolled away, and there was disclosed a new scene.

Two or three wounded Republicans lay writhing on the floor. Lopez lay near, bound tight, and surrounded by the six Carlists, who, I am sorry to say, insulted their captive by fierce threats and unnecessary taunts. At all this Lopez seemed unmoved, though the expression of his face was by no means a happy one.

It is a very annoying thing, my reader, when you are bringing in your long suit, and the game appears to be all your own, to have it all changed by the interposition of a miserable trump, on the existence of which you had not reckoned; and then to leave the role of Conquering Hero, and change the part of victor for that of vanquished, requires so many high moral qualities that few can be reasonably expected to exhibit them in such a wicked world as this.

And here there is an excellent opportunity to pause and moralize; but, on the whole, perhaps it is better to proceed.

Very well, then.

There was Dolores, and she was clinging to Ashby in a perfect abandon of joy. She had found him! that was bliss indeed. She had saved him! that was joy almost too great for endurance. The impetuous and ardent nature of Dolores, which made her so brave, made her also the slave of her changing moods; and so it was that the heroine who had but lately led that wild charge on to victory now sobbed and wept convulsively in Ashby's arms. As for Ashby, he no longer seemed made of stone. He forgot all else except the one fact that Dolores had come back to him. Lopez might have perceived, if he had leisure for such observations, that Ashby's English phlegm formed but a part of his character; and the sight of that young man's rapture over Dolores might have made him think the English a fickle and volatile race.

The scene disclosed Harry and Katie also in an equally tender situation; for Harry's bonds had been cut, and he had flown at once to Katie's side. But the prostration consequent upon all this excitement was so great that he found it necessary to carry her to the open air.

Dolores now roused herself.

"Come," said she, "let us close the gates before they rally."

With these words she hurried out, followed by Ashby. Then the Carlists followed.

Russell still remained. As yet he could scarcely believe in his good-fortune. Over and over again had he felt himself carefully all over to assure himself that no bullet had penetrated any part of his precious skin, and gradually the sweet conviction of his soundness pervaded his inner man. Then there was another joyful discovery, which was that Rita had disappeared. In the wild tumult and dense smoke he had lost sight of her. What had become of her he could not imagine. Whether she had fled in the wild panic, or had remained and concealed herself, he could not say. His knowledge of her character made him dread the worst, and he felt sure that she was not very far away. So he thought that the safest place for himself would be as near as possible to those Carlists whom Rita had betrayed, and whom she now justly dreaded more than anything else. So he hurried out after the noble six.

On the floor Brooke lay, and there Talbot was seated, holding his head on her lap. He was senseless, yet she could feel that his heart was beating, and in that pulsation she found her hope. His wounds did not seem deep, for she had felt with tender fingers along the place where the blood was flowing, without detecting anything that seemed formidable. Still, the sight of his prostrate and bleeding form, as he lay senseless in her arms, after he had flung his life away for her sake, was one that moved her so profoundly that all the world for her was now at that moment centred in that prostrate figure with the poor, piteous, bleeding head. With tender hands she wiped away the blood that still oozed from the wound and trickled down his face; more tenderly still she bowed down low over that unconscious head and kissed the dear wounds that had been received for her, and thus hung over him in a rapture of love and an agony of despair.

Lopez saw this and wondered, and looked on in still increasing wonder, till this was all that he saw, and all else was forgotten in a sudden great light that flashed into his mind.

He saw it all. "So this," he thought, "was the reason why these two held such self-sacrificing affection; this was the reason why one would persist in risking everything for the other. The priest would not leave the spy when freedom was offered; the priest had stood before the spy, interposing between him and the bullets; the spy had flung himself into the jaws of death to save the priest. Priest! Ah, thou of the angel face! thou, so calm in the presence of death for thy beloved! thou! no angel, no demon, but a woman, with a woman's heart of hearts, daring all things for thy love!"

A mighty revolution took place in the breast of Lopez. Bound as he was, he struggled to his feet and then dropped on his knees before Talbot. He then bent down and examined Brooke very carefully. Then he looked up, nodded, and smiled. Then he kissed Talbot's hand. Then he again smiled as if to encourage her.

Talbot caught at the hint and the hope that was thus held out. Lopez was offering his assistance. She accepted it. She determined to loose his bonds. True, he might fly on the instant, and bring back all his men; but the preservation of Brooke was too important a thing to admit of a moment's hesitation. Besides, had she not already discovered that this Spaniard had a heart full of noble and tender emotions? that he was at once heroic and compassionate, and one on whose honor she might rely to the uttermost?

With a small penknife she quickly cut his bonds.

Lopez was free.

But Lopez remained. He bent over Brooke. He raised him up to a more comfortable position, and examined him in a way which showed both skill and experience.

Then he suddenly rose and left the room. Talbot heard his footsteps outside. Was he escaping? she asked herself, and her answer was, No.

She was right. In a few moments Lopez came back with some cold water. He bathed Brooke's head, loosened his neckcloth, and rubbed his hands as skilfully as a doctor and as tenderly as a nurse.

At length Brooke drew a long breath, then opened his eyes, and looked around with a bewildered air. Then he sat up and stared. He saw Lopez, no longer stern and hostile, but surveying him with kindly anxiety. He saw Talbot, her face all stained with blood, but her eyes fixed on him, glowing with love unutterable and radiant with joy.

"Oh, Brooke," said she, "tell him to fly! He is free—tell him."

Not understanding any of the circumstances around him, Brooke obeyed Talbot mechanically, and translated her words simply as she had spoken them.

"Fly!" said he; "you are free."

A flush of joy passed over the face of Lopez.

"Noblest of ladies!" said he, looking reverentially at Talbot, "I take my life from you, and will never forget you till my dying day. Farewell! farewell!"

And with these words he was gone.



CHAPTER LII.

IN WHICH TALBOT TAKES OFF HER DISGUISE.

Brooke and Talbot were now alone; for, though there were one or two wounded in the room, yet these were too much taken up with their own pains to think of anything else.

Brooke's wound, after all, turned out to be but slight. The bullet had grazed his skull, making a furrow through the scalp of no greater depth than the skin, and carrying away a pathway of hair. The sudden and sharp force of such a blow had been sufficient to fell him to the floor and leave him senseless; but, upon reviving, it did not take a very long time for him to regain his strength and the full use of his faculties. The traces of the blow were soon effaced, and Brooke at last showed himself to be very little the worse for his adventure. His face was marked here and there by spots from the powder; but the blood-stains were quickly washed away, and his head was bound up in a narrow bandage made of Talbot's handkerchief. His hat, which had fallen off during his struggles with the soldiers, was now recovered, and as it was of soft stuff he was able to wear it.

"With this," said he, "Brooke is himself again."

Talbot now proceeded to wash the bloodstains from her own face.

"That looks better," said Brooke. "Streaks of blood did not improve your personal appearance."

He tried to speak in his usual careless tone, but his voice was tremulous and agitated.

"Your blood, Brooke," said Talbot, in a faltering voice—"your blood—poured out—for me!"

There was a solemn silence after this. Then Brooke leaned back and gave a heavy sigh.

"I feel a little shaky still," said he.

"Let me support you," said Talbot, with feverish eagerness. "You must be weak still—very weak. You must not exert yourself too much."

She held out her arms as though to raise him up; but Brooke drew back.

"No, no," he murmured, in a faint voice; "it's no matter—no matter at all."

Talbot looked down and said nothing.

"I don't know what happened," said Brooke. "Where is everybody? And Lopez—why did you tell him he was free? Was he a prisoner? And how? Tell me all about it."

Upon this Talbot narrated as briefly as possible the circumstances of the recent struggle.

"Where is everybody now?" asked Brooke.

"I don't know. It is enough for me that you are here, and alive and safe."

"And so you let Lopez go, after all?" asked Brooke, after another pause.

"Yes," said Talbot; "he did what I was praying for—he brought you back to life. Was I wrong?"

"Wrong or right," said Brooke, "I approve of it. Everything that you do is right in my eyes."

Talbot now began to take off the priest's dress.

"What are you doing?" asked Brooke, hastily, starting up to his feet with a quickness which showed that, as he had said, he was quite himself again.

"I have no further use for this dress now," said she. "I will take it off."

"Don't," said Brooke, imploringly. "Wear it still—at least as long as you are with me; for I shall think of you, Talbot, in that dress always, until my dying day—you in that dress—in that priest's dress, with the face of an angel of heaven. It was thus that you looked as you came between me and the levelled guns of the soldiers at the old mill Talbot, I should now be a dead man but for you."

Talbot looked at him earnestly, and a sad smile stole over her face.

"Brooke," said she, "I should now be a dead girl but for you."

They both stood face to face. Brooke's memory was now fully restored, and in his mind there was the clear and unclouded recollection of that scene which had called forth his act of self-surrender. As he looked at Talbot, he saw her eyes fastened on his with an expression such as he had seen there before more than once—a look which told him of all that was in her heart. He held out his hands. She held out hers to meet them, and he seized them in a convulsive grasp. Thus they stood, holding one another's hands, and looking into one another's eyes and hearts.