"I dare, because I have nothing more to lose, madame!"

"Say you so? Would you rather I gave you into Melinza's keeping?"

"Nay!" I cried, "you could not—such unfaith would surpass the limits of even Spanish treachery! And you would not—it would please you better if he never set eyes upon my face again! I only wonder that you should have brought me here to-day!"

She opened her lips to speak; but the blare of the trumpets drowned the words, and she turned away from me.

The troops were drawn in line across the square: on the right, the Spanish regulars of the garrison; on the left, the militia companies, which had come up while we were speaking. These last were made up, for the most part, of mulattoes and half-breed Indians,—a swarthy-faced, ill-looking band that appeared fitter for savage warfare of stealth and ambuscade and poisoned arrows than for valorous exploits and honest sword-play.

The various man[oe]uvres of the troops, under the skilled leadership of Don Pedro, occupied our attention for upward of an hour, during all which time my companion appeared quite unconscious of my presence. She sat motionless save for the swaying of her fan. Only once did her face express aught but fixed attention—and that was when a sudden fanfare of the trumpets caused the Governor's horse to plunge, and the old man lurched forward on the pommel of his saddle, his plumed hat slipping down over his eyes.

For an instant the swaying fan was still; a low laugh sounded in my ear, and, turning, I saw the red lips of the Governor's lady take on a very scornful curve.

She received him graciously enough, however, when—the review being over—he dismounted and joined us in the pavilion.

Melinza had retired with the troops; but just as the last rank disappeared from view he came galloping back at full speed, flung himself from the saddle, and, throwing the reins to an attendant, mounted the pavilion stair.

I felt that Dona Orosia's eyes were upon me, and I believed that she liked me none the less for my hostility to the man. It may have been this that gave me courage—I do not know—I think I would not have touched his hand in any case.

He flushed deeply when I put both of mine behind my back; then, with the utmost effrontery, he leaned forward and plucked away one little black rosette that had fallen loose from my curls and was slipping down upon my shoulder. This he raised to his lips with a laugh, and then fastened upon his breast.

I was deeply angered, and I cast about for some means of retaliation that would show him the scorn I held him in.

At the foot of the pavilion stood the youth who was holding Melinza's horse.

I leaned over the railing, and, loosing quickly from my hair the fellow to the rosette Don Pedro wore, I tossed it to the lad below, saying, in almost the only Spanish words I knew,—

"It is a gift!"

Melinza's face grew white with anger; he tore off the bit of riband and ground it under his heel; then he strode down the stair, mounted his horse, and rode away.

The Governor's lady watched him till he was out of sight; then, with a strange smile, she said to me,—

"I never knew before that blue eyes had so much of fire in them. I think, my little saint, 'tis time I sent you back to your old duenna."

"I would thank you for so much grace!" was my reply. And back to Barbara I was despatched forthwith.

But though I have been some hours in my chamber, my indignation has not cooled. The very sight of that man's countenance is more than I can endure!

I am resolved that I will never set foot outside my door when there is any chance of my encountering him, and so I shall inform the Governor's wife when she returns....

She laughs at me! She declares I shall do whatever is her pleasure! And what is my puny strength to hers? With all the will in the world to resist her, I am as wax in her hands!



CHAPTER XIII.

The first day of March.

For six months I have added nothing to this record; though time and again I have taken up my pen to write, and then laid it by, with no mark upon the fresh page. Can heartache be written down in words? Can loneliness and longing,—the desolation of one who has no human creature on whom to lavish love and care,—the dull misery that is known only to those whose best beloved are suffering the worst woes of this woeful life,—can all these be told? Ah, no! one can only feel them—bear them—and be crushed by them.

If it had not been for the good old dame, I know not what would have become of me. Many a day and many a night I have clung to her for hours, weeping—crying aloud, "I cannot bear it! I cannot!" What choice had I but to bear it? And tears cannot flow forever; the calm of utter weariness succeeds.

'Tis not that I have been ill treated. I am well housed, and daintily clothed and fed. Unless Melinza—or some other guest—is present, I sit at the Governor's own table. His wife makes of me something between a companion and a plaything: one moment I have to bear with her capricious kindness; the next, I am teased or driven away from her with as little courtesy as she shows to the noble hound that follows her like her own shadow.

Until lately I have seen little of Melinza. Early in the winter he went away to the Habana and remained absent two months, during which time I had more peace of mind than I have known since first we came here. But since his return he has tried in various ways to force himself into my presence; and Dona Orosia,—who could so easily shield me if she chose,—before she comes to my relief, permits him to annoy me until I am roused to the point of passionate repulse. One could almost think she loves to see me suffer—unless it is the sight of his discomfiture that affords her such satisfaction.

But all of this I could endure if only my dear love were free! I have heard that he is ill. It may not be true,—God grant that it is not! Still, though the rumour came to me by devious ways, and through old Barbara's lips at last (and she is ever prone to think the worst), it is more than possible! I, myself, have suffered somewhat from this long confinement; and in how much worse case is he!

I have tried to occupy myself, that I may keep my thoughts from dwelling forever on our unhappy state. In the past six months I have so far mastered the Spanish tongue that now I can converse in it with more ease than in the French. The Governor declares that I have the true intonation; and even Dona Orosia admits that I have shown some aptitude. I care nothing for it as a mere accomplishment; but I hope that the knowledge may be of use if ever we attempt escape. (Though what chance of escape is there when Mr. Rivers is within stone walls and I have no means of even holding converse with Mr. Collins?)

I have one other accomplishment that has won me more favour with the Governor's wife than aught else. She discovered, one day, that I have some skill with the lute, and a voice not lacking in sweetness; and now she will have me sing to her by the hour until my throat is weary and I have to plead for rest.

I had, recently, a conversation with her that has haunted me every hour since; for it showed me a side of her nature that I had not seen before, and that leads me to think that under her caprice and petulance there is a deep purpose hidden.

I had exhausted my list of songs, and as she still demanded more I bethought me of a curious old ballad I had heard many years ago. The air eluded me for some while; but my fingers, straying over the strings, fell suddenly into the plaintive melody; with it, the words too came back to me.

I bade my love fareweel, wi' tears; He bade fareweel to me. "How sall I pass the lang, lang years?" "I maun be gane," quo' he.

The tear-draps frae mine een did rin Like water frae a spring; But while I grat, my love gaed in To feast and reveling!

The tear-draps frae mine een did start Salt as the briny tide: Sae sair my grief, sae fu' my heart, I wept a river wide.

Adoon that stream my man did rove, And crossed the tearfu' sea. O whaur'll I get a leal true love To bide at hame wi' me?

The lang, lang years they winna pass; My lord is still awa'. Mayhap he loves a fairer lass— O wae the warst ava!

How sall I wile my lover hame? I'll drink the tearfu' seas! My red mou' to their briny faem, I'll drain them to the lees!

Then gin he comes na hameward soon His ain true love to wed, I'll kilt my claes and don my shoon And cross the sea's dry bed.

"Oh in thine heart, my love, my lord, Mak' room, mak' room for me; Or at thy feet, by my true word, Thy lady's grave sall be!"

"A melancholy air, yet with somewhat of a pleasing sadness in its minor cadences," commented Dona Orosia when I had ceased. "Translate me the words, an your Spanish is sufficient."

"That it is not, I fear," was my reply, "and the task is beyond me for the further reason that the song is not even English, but in a dialect of the Scots. 'Tis only the plaint of a poor lady whose mind seems to have gone astray in her long waiting for a faithless lover"—and I gave her the sense of the verses as best I could.

"Nay," said the Spanish woman, with a singular smile. "She hath more wit than you credit her with. You mark me, the flood of a woman's tears will bear a man further than a mighty river, and her sighs waft him away more speedily than the strongest gale. And once he has gone, taking with him such a memory of her, 'twould be far easier for her to drink the ocean dry than to wile him home. For let a man but suspect that a woman could break her heart for him, and he——is more than content to let her do it!"

She paused; but I made no answer, having none upon my tongue. Presently she added: "When once a woman has the folly to plead for herself, in that moment she murders Love; and every tear she sheds thereafter becomes another clod upon his grave. There remains but one thing for her to do——"

"Herself to die!" I murmured.

"Nay, child! To live and be revenged!" She turned a flushed face toward me; and, though the water stood in her eyes, they were hard and angry. "To be revenged! To plot and to scheme; to bide her time patiently; to study his heart's desire, and to foster it; and then——"

"And then?" I questioned softly, with little shivers of repulsion chilling me from head to foot.

"To rob him of it."

The words were spoken deliberately, in a voice that was resonant and slow. 'Twas not like the outburst of a moment's impulse—the sudden jangling of a harpstring rudely touched; it was rather with the fateful emphasis of a clock striking the hour, heralded by a premonitory quiver—a gathering together of inward forces that had waited through long moments for this final utterance.

What manner of woman was this? I caught my breath with a little shuddering cry.

Dona Orosia turned quickly.

"Go! Leave me!" she cried. "Do you linger? Can I never be rid of you? Out of my sight! I would have a moment's respite from your great eyes and your white face. Go!"

And I obeyed her.



CHAPTER XIV.

March, the 9th day.

Dona Orosia sent for me at noon to-day. There was news to tell, and she chose to be the one to tell it.

I found her in her favourite seat,—a great soft couch, covered with rich Moorish stuffs, and placed under the shadow of the balcony that overlooks the sunny garden. Up each of the light pillars from which spring the graceful arches that support this balcony climbs a mass of blooming vines that weave their delicate tendrils round the railing above and then trail downward again in festoons of swaying colour. Behind, in the luminous shadow, she lay coiled and half asleep; with a large fan of bronze turkey-feathers in one lazy hand, the other teasing the tawny hound which was stretched out at her feet.

She opened her great eyes as I came near.

"Ah! the little blue-eyed Margarita, the little saint who frowns when men worship at her shrine," she said slowly. "There is news for you. The Virgen de la Mar arrived last night from Habana, bringing the commands of the Council of Spain that the English prisoners here detained be liberated forthwith. For it seems that there has been presented to the Council, through our ambassador to the English Court, a memorial, which clearly proves that these persons have given no provocation to any subject of his Catholic Majesty, Charles the Second of Spain, and are therefore unlawfully imprisoned. How like you that?" The waving fan was suddenly stilled, and the brilliant eyes half veiled.

"Is this true?" I asked, for my heart misgave me.

She laughed. "It is true that the Virgen de la Mar has brought those orders to the Governor of San Augustin—and that my husband has received them."

"Will he obey them, senora?"

"Will who obey them?" she asked; and there was a gleam of white teeth under the red, curling lip. "My husband, or the Governor of San Augustin?"

"Are they not the same?"

"If you think so, little fool," she cried, half rising from her couch; "if you think so still, you would better go back to your chamber and pray yourself and your lover out of prison!"

I made no answer; I waited, without much hope, for what she would say next. My heart was very full, but I would not pleasure her by weeping.

"Child," she continued, sinking back among the cushions and speaking in a slow, impressive manner, "there are two Governors in San Augustin—and they take their commands neither from the child-King, the Queen-mother, nor any of the Spanish Council. My husband is not one; he obeys them both by turns. His Excellency Don Pedro Melinza decrees that these orders from Spain shall be carried out except in the case of one Senor Rivers, who will be held here to answer for an unprovoked assault on one of his Majesty's subjects, whom he severely wounded; also for inciting others of his fellow prisoners to break their parole, and for various other offences against the peace of this garrison,—all of which charges Melinza will swear to be true."

"Is he so lost to honour? And will your husband uphold him in the lie?"

"Hear me out," she continued in the same tone. "Melinza also decides that these orders do not include the English senorita, Dona Margaret, whom he intends to detain here for——for reasons best known to himself; although the other Governor of San Augustin decrees"——she started up from her nest of pillows and continued in a wholly different tone: "I say—I say—that you shall quit this place with the other prisoners, and my husband dares not oppose me! I am sick of your white face and your saintly blue eyes; I am wearied to death of your company; but I swear Melinza shall not have you! Therefore go you must, and speedily."

"And leave my betrothed at Don Pedro's mercy?"

"What is that to me? Let him rot in his dungeon. I care not—so I am rid of your white face."

She shut her eyes angrily and thrust out her slippered foot at the sleeping hound. He lifted his great head and yawned; then, gathering up his huge bulk from the ground, he drew closer to his mistress's side and sniffed the air with solicitude, as though seeking a cause for her displeasure. There was a dish of cakes beside her, and she took one in her white fingers and threw it to the dog. He let it fall to the ground, and nosed it doubtfully, putting forth an experimental tongue,—till, finding it to his taste, he swallowed it at a gulp. His mistress laughed, and tossed him another, which disappeared in his great jaws. A third met the same fate; but the fourth she extended to him in her pink palm, and, as he would have taken it she snatched the hand away. Again and again the poor brute strove to seize the proffered morsel, but each time it was lifted out of his reach; till finally his lithe body was launched upward, and he snapped both the cake and the hand that teased him.

'Twas the merest scratch, and truly the dog meant it not in anger; but on the instant Dona Orosia flushed crimson to her very brow, and, drawing up her silken skirt, she snatched a jewelled dagger from her garter and plunged it to the hilt in the poor beast's throat. The red blood spouted, and the huge body dropped in a tawny heap.

I rushed forward and lifted the great head; but the eyes were glazed.

"Senora!" I cried, "senora! the poor brute loved you!"

She spurned the limp body with a careless foot, saying,—

"So did—once—the man who gave it me."

Then she clapped her hands, and the negro servant came and at her command dragged away the carcass, wiped the bloody floor, and brought a basin of clear water and a linen cloth to bathe the scratch on her hand. When he had gone she made me bind it up with her broidered kerchief and stamped her foot because I drew the knot over-tight.

"Dona Orosia," I said, when I had done it to her liking. "If all you care for, in this other matter, is to get rid of my white face, I pray you kill me with your dagger and ask your lord to let my love go free."

She looked up curiously. "Would you die for him?" she asked.

"Most willingly, an it please you to make my death his ransom."

Still she gazed at me and seemed strangely stirred. "Once I loved like that," she said in musing tones. "I will tell thee a tale, child, for I like not the reproach in those blue eyes. Five years ago, when I was as young as thou art now, I lived with my parents in Valencia, where the flowers are even sweeter and the skies bluer than here in sunny Florida. I had a lover in those days, who followed me like my shadow, and, in spite of my old duenna, found many a moment to pour his passion in my ears. He was a brave man and a handsome, and he won my heart from me. Though he had no great fortune I would have wed him willingly and followed him over land and sea. I never doubted him for a day; and when he came to my father's house with an old nobleman, his uncle and the head of his family, I was well content; for my mother told me they had asked for my hand and it had been promised. But when my father called me in at last to see my future husband, it was the old man who met me with a simper on his wrinkled face. I turned to the nephew; but he was gazing out of the window——"

She broke off with a fierce laugh and then added bitterly,—"And so I came to marry my husband, the Governor of San Augustin!"

"The other was Don Pedro?"

"Has thy baby wit compassed that much? Yes, the other was Melinza."

"But if you once loved him why should there be hate between you now?"

"Why? thou little fool! Why?"—she put out one hand and drew me closer, so that she could look deep into my eyes. "Why does a woman ever hate a man? Canst tell me that?"

We gazed at each other so until I saw—I scarce know what I saw! My head swam, and of a sudden it came over me that when the angels fell from heaven there must have been an awful beauty in their eyes!



CHAPTER XV.

I awoke this morning with a sense of horror haunting me,—and then I recalled the scene of yesterday and the dumb appeal in the eyes of the dying hound. The story the Spanish woman had told me of her own past pleaded nothing in excuse. Hatred and cruelty seemed strange fruit for love to bear.

I thought of my own ill fortunes, and I said within me: True Love sits at the door of the heart to guard it from all evil passions. Loss and Pain may enter in, and Sorrow bear them company; but Revenge and Cruelty, Untruth, and all their evil kin, must hide their shamed faces and pass by!

Secure in the thought of the pure affection that reigned in my own bosom, I went forth and met Temptation, and straightway fell from the high path in which I believed my feet to be so surely fixed!

Dona Orosia seemed to be in a strangely gentle mood.

"Child, how pale thy face is! Didst thou not lie awake all night? Deny it not, 'tis writ most plainly in the dark shadows round those great blue eyes. Come, rest here beside me"—and she drew me down upon the couch and slipped a soft pillow under my head.

I was fairly dumfounded at this unwonted courtesy, and could find no words to meet it with. But she appeared unconscious of my silence and continued speaking.

"'Tis the thought of the English lover that robs thee of sleep, Margarita mia! Thou wouldst give thy very life to procure his freedom; is it not so? Would any task be too hard for thee with this end in view?"

I could not answer; I clasped my hands and looked at her in silence.

"I thought as much," she said, smiling, and laid a gentle finger on my cheek.

"Oh, senora, you will aid me to save him! You will plead with the Governor—you will set him free?"

She drew back coldly. "You ask too much. I have told you that there are two Governors in San Augustin—I divide the honours with Melinza; but I plead with him for naught."

I turned away to hide the quivering of my lip.

"Listen to me," she added more kindly. "Between Pedro Melinza and Orosia de Colis there is at present an armed peace; since each holds a hostage. Not that I care anything for the Englishman, but my husband is undesirous of defying the commands of the Council. Although he bears no love to your nation, he maintains that it is not the policy of our government, at present, to ignore openly the friendly relations that are supposed to exist between the Crowns of England and of Spain. It seems that the duplicate of the Council's orders has been sent to the Governor of your new settlement on this coast; and if he sends hither to demand the delivery of the prisoners, Senor de Colis would rather choose to yield up all, than to risk a reprimand from the authorities at home.

"Dost thou understand all this? Well, let us now see the reverse of the picture.

"Melinza sets his own desires in the scale, and they outweigh all politic scruples. He has sworn that so long as I stand between him and you, so long will Senor Rivers remain in the castle dungeon,—unless Death steps kindly in to set your lover free."

A little sob broke in my throat at these cruel words. Dona Orosia laid her hand on mine.

"Poor little one!" she said.

"You pity me, senora! What is your pity worth?" I demanded, forcing back the tears.

"I have a way of escape to offer," she answered softly.

"Escape for him? Or for me?"

"For both. Now listen! There is but one way to relax Melinza's hold on Senor Rivers. He would exchange him willingly for you."

"Better for us both to die!" I exclaimed indignantly.

"I would sooner kill you with my own hands than give you up to him," said Dona Orosia, with a cold smile.

"Then what do you mean, senora?"

"I mean, Margarita mia, that you should feign a tenderness for him and let him think that it is I who would keep two loving souls apart."

"What! when I have shown him naught but dislike in all these months? He could never be so witless as to believe in such a sudden transformation."

"Such is the vanity of man," said Dona Orosia, "that he would find it easier to believe that you had feigned hatred all this while from fear of me, than to doubt that you had eventually fallen a victim to his fascinations."

"What would it advantage me if I did deceive him?"

"He would then cease to oppose the liberation of all the other prisoners."

"But what of my fate, senora?"

"Leave that in my hands, little one,—I am not powerless. I give thee my word he shall never have thee. At the last moment we shall undeceive him"—and she laughed a low laugh of triumph.

I glanced up quickly.

"So!" I exclaimed. "This will be your revenge! And you would bribe me, with my dear love's freedom, to act a part in it! To lie for you; to play at love where I feel only loathing; to sully my lips with feigned caresses; and to make a mockery of the holiest thing in life!"

"Is your Englishman not worth some sacrifice?" she asked, with lifted brows.

What could I say? I left her. I hastened to my little room, shut fast the door, and bolted it on the inner side. Then I knelt at the barred window and looked out at the sunlight and the sea.

The blue waves danced happily, and the fresh wind kissed the sparkling ripples till the foam curled over them—as white lids droop coyly over laughing eyes. Two snowy gulls dipped and soared, flashing now against the blue sky—now into the blue sea. I gazed at their white wings—and thought of all the vain prayers I had sent up to Heaven.

And then the dark hour of my life closed down on me.

I bethought me of my father, that loyal gentleman whose only fault was that he served his Prince too well,—a Prince whose gratitude had never prompted him to inquire concerning that servant's fate, or to offer a word of consolation to the wife who had lost her all. I bethought me of my young mother, of her white, tear-stained face, of the long hours she had spent upon her knees, and how at last she prayed: "Lord! only to know that he is dead!"—yet she died ignorant.

Then did the devil come to me and whisper: "Of what use is it to have patience and faith? Does thy God bear thee in mind—or is his memory like that of the Prince thy father served? Dost thou still believe that He doeth all things well, and is there still trust in thy heart? Come, make friends of those who would aid thee—never mind a little lie! Wouldst be happy? Wouldst save thy dear love? Then cease thy vain prayers and take thy fate in thine own hands."

I rose up from my knees and looked out again upon the laughing waters,—I would do this evil thing that good might come. I would act a lying part, and soil my soul, so that I and my dear love might win freedom and happiness. But I would pray no more—for I could not ask God's blessing on a lie.

Then I went slowly back to where my temptress waited.

"Dona Orosia," I said, "I take your offer. I am young—I would be happy; and you—you would be revenged! I am not the little fool you think me: I know you too well to believe that you would aid me out of love; I laugh at your pity; but I trust your hate!"

"Bueno," she said. "It is enough. We understand one another,—but I must teach thee the part, or thou wilt fail."

"I am not so simple, senora, I can feign love—for love's sake."

"Yet I would have thee set round with thorns, my sweet. The rose that is too easy plucked is not worth wearing. And do thou give only promises and never fulfil them,—I'd baulk him of every kiss he thinks to win!"



CHAPTER XVI.

A day went by, and though I had become even letter-perfect in my new role I had not the chance to play it to my audience; but it came at last.

It was in the long, dreamy hour of the early afternoon, when sleep comes easiest. Dona Orosia had ordered her couch to be placed in the shadiest part of the breezy garden, close against the gray stone wall. Designedly she chose the corner nearest the iron gate, through which we could command a portion of the sunny street; and here she lay and made me sing to her all the songs I knew, the while she dozed and waked again, and whiles teased her parrot into uttering discordant cries until for very anger I would sing no more.

Suddenly she laid aside her petulance, and with a quick, imperious gesture bade me take up the lute again; then, falling back among her pillows, she closed her eyes and let her bosom rise and fall with the gentle breathings of a sleeping child.

I hesitated in some astonishment; but again the sharp command hissed from her softly parted lips,—

"Sing, little fool!—Melinza passes!"

I touched the lute with shaking fingers and lifted my trembling voice. The notes stuck in my throat and came forth huskily at first; but then I thought on my dear love in his hateful prison, and I sung as I had never sung before.

Above the gray wall I saw Don Pedro's plumed hat passing by. He reached the gate and halted, gazing in with eager eyes. His quick glance compassed the green nook, passed over the sleeping figure, and fixed itself upon my face.

The song died away; I leaned forward, smiling, and laid a warning finger on my lip.

He made me a bow so courtly that the feather in his laced hat swept the ground.

"So, senorita, the caged bird can sing?"

"When her jailer wills it so, Don Pedro," I said softly, and smiled—and sighed—and gave a half-fearful glance over my shoulder; then added, in a lower whisper: "And when she wills otherwise, I must be silent."

"How, would she even keep a lock upon your lips?"

"Upon my lips—and my eyes also. Indeed, my very brows are under her jurisdiction, and are oft constrained to frown, against their will!"

"So!" he exclaimed; and I saw a sweet doubt creep over his face. "Must I place to her account the many frowns you have bestowed on me?"

"Si, senor—and add to those some others that would not be coerced."

The fire in his black eyes frightened me not a little as he whispered:

"If that be true, then grant me the rose in your bosom, lady!"

I lifted a trembling hand to the flower, and shot a frightened glance at the senora's quivering lashes.

"Oh! I dare not!" I murmured, and let my hand fall against the lute upon my knee. The jangling strings roused the pretended sleeper from her dreams.

She half rose, and, seizing a pillow from her couch, hurled it at me, saying angrily: "Here is for such awkwardness!"

The soft missile failed of its proper mark; but found another in the green parrot, who was dangling, head downward, from his perch; and there was an angry squawk from the insulted bird.

I threw a timorous glance toward the gateway, motioning the intruder away. He would have lingered, being to all appearances greatly angered at the discourteous treatment of my lady warder; but prudence prevailed, and he fell back out of sight, with a hand upon his heart, protesting dumbly.

* * * * *

The comedy had just begun. Now it must be played through to the end.

It is a strange thing to see the zest with which my gentle jailer prepares, each day, an ambush for the unwary foe, and how he always falls into the trap—to be assailed by me with smiles, and soft complaints, piteous appeals for sympathy, and shy admissions of my tender friendship; which are always cut short by some well-contrived interruption or the sudden appearance of Dona Orosia on the scene. Though only a week has passed, already Don Pedro would take oath that I love him well.

Early this morning I heard him underneath my window; and I was right glad of the chance to smile on him from behind the protecting bars. This meeting had not been of Dona Orosia's contriving, so I thought I would use it for my own ends.

I vowed to him that I was unhappy—which was true. I protested that I was sick with longing for freedom—and that, too, was no lie. But to that I added a whole tissue of falsehood, declaring that I had never drawn a free breath since I came into the world; that my uncle had been a tyrant, and the man to whom he had betrothed me was jealous and exacting; that I had been brought across the seas against my will; and that I dreaded the hardships of life in this new country. I said I had no wish to rejoin the English settlers, and I denied, with tears, any partiality for my dear love. Heaven forgive me! but I professed I loved Don Pedro better than any man I had ever seen, and I entreated him to take me away from these barbarous shores.

I had not thought that I could move him, yet, strange to say, the man seemed touched. I wondered as I listened to him, for I had thought him all bad, and deemed his passion but a passing fancy. He was speaking now of Habana, a city of some refinement, where, as his wife, I would enjoy the companionship of other ladies of my own station.

"I'd never suffer thee to live here, my fairest lady, where yon dark devil of a woman could vent her spite on thee!" he whispered softly; and my conscience smote me, for I was playing with a man's heart, of flesh and blood.

But I bethought me, if there was in truth any good in that heart, I would dare appeal to it; for I mistrusted that at any time Dona Orosia would break her promised word.

"Truly, Don Pedro, I would go gladly, for I hate the very sight of these walls; but—if you love me—I would crave of your graciousness another boon. Set free the English gentleman who was my promised husband, and send him, with the other prisoners, back to his friends."

There was no answer, and I feared I had overstepped the mark; but I dared further.

"Senor de Melinza," I said, "it is true that I come of a race for which you have no love, and that I hold a creed which you condemn; nevertheless it must be remembered that we have our own code of chivalry, and there have lived and died in England as brave knights and true as even your valiant Cid. I would not have the man I am to wed guilty of an unknightly act. Therefore be generous. You have been mutually wounded; but it was in fair duello,"—this I said feigning ignorance of the coward blow that so nearly reached my dear love's heart,—"and now, Don Pedro, it would be the more honourable to set free the countryman of your promised bride and send him in safety to his friends."

"Senorita," said the Spaniard,—and there was a cloud upon his brow,—"I would you had asked me any boon but this. Nevertheless I give you my knightly word that the man shall go, and go unharmed."

"I thank you, Don Pedro," I said, and fought down the cry of joy that struggled to my lips. Then, because I could find no other words, and feared to fail in the part I had to play, I took Dame Barbara's scissors and cut off a long lock of my yellow hair, bound it with riband, and threw it down to him as guerdon for the favour he had granted me.

This noon, when I joined the Governor's wife as usual under the vine-hung balcony, I boasted cheerfully of the promise I had wrung from Melinza; and she demanded at once to hear all that had passed between us,—then called me a fool for my pains!

"Little marplot! Had you shown less concern for the fate of your Englishman, it would have been vastly better. You do but cast obstacles in my way. There is nothing for me to do now but hotly to oppose his leaving! If needs must I will pretend a liking for the man myself, and vow to hold him as my guest yet a while longer, for the sake of his pretty wit and his gallant bearing,—any device to throw dust in their eyes, so that we seem not to be of the same minds and putting up the selfsame plea. Oh! little saint with the blue eyes, your metier is not diplomacy!"

"In sooth, senora, till you first taught me to dissemble I was unlessoned in the art."

She laughed then, and said that when I had less faith in others I could more easily deceive.

"If the little Margarita believed Melinza's pretty fable about Habana, and the excellent company there which his wife would enjoy, 'tis no wonder that she made a tangle of her own little web."

"But Dona Orosia, think you he would deal unfairly with me? His words rang so true—even a bad man may love honestly! And if I trifle with the one saving virtue in his heart, will it not be a grievous sin?"

The mocking smile died out of the Spaniard's eyes and left them fathomless and sombre.

I felt as one who—looking into an open window, and seeing the light of a taper glancing and flickering within—draws back abashed, when suddenly the flame is quenched, and only the hollow dark stares back at his blinded gaze.

"If he loves you," she said slowly, "it is but as he has loved before, more times than one. He would skim the cream of passion, brush the dew from the flower, crush the first sweetness from the myrtle-blooms,—and leave the rest. You child, what do you know of men? It is only the unattainable that is worth striving for. There is much of the brute beast in their passions. Did you mark, the other day, how the dead hound turned a scornful nozzle to the first sweet morsel that I pressed on his acceptance? But afterward, the fear of losing it made him eager to the leaping-point. Just so I shall trick his master—shall let him see thee, almost grasp and taste; then, when the moment of mad longing comes, I'll stab him with the final loss of thee! Only so can I arouse a desire that will outlive a day; for I know men's hearts to the core, thou blue-eyed babe!"

"Senora," I cried, stung by her scornful words, "I cannot say I know men's hearts; but I do know the heart of one true gentleman; and I believe, when he had won from me the betrothal kiss, I was not less desirable in his eyes!"

"So you believe," she said, and shook her head. "Bueno, go on believing—while you can. Woman's faith in man's fealty lives just so long——" and she bent forward from her couch, plucked a fragile blossom from the swaying vines, and cast it under foot.

I would have spoken again of my trust in the leal true heart that trusted me; but I saw the trembling of the laces on her bosom, I saw the dark eyes growing more angerful, and a slow crimson rising in the rich cheek. She was always "studying her revenge,"—this beautiful, unhappy woman, "keeping her wounds green which otherwise might heal and do well."

As I watched her a great pity overcame me, so that I held my peace.



CHAPTER XVII.

The 20th of March—a day never to be forgot!

I have seen Mr. Rivers. It is the first time since that night—nine months ago. I have seen him and spoken with him in the presence of Melinza, Dona Orosia, and the Governor.

Whatever may befall us now, nothing can take away the memory of this last hour. If ever we leave these walls together and taste freedom again, it will have been dearly bought. A maid's truth tarnished, and the brave heart of a most loyal gentleman robbed of its faith! Dear God, what a price to pay!

'Twas noon when Dona Orosia came herself to fetch me.

"There is some deviltry afoot," she said. "I cannot fathom it as yet; but, as you hope for freedom for yourself and your Englishman, don't fail to play your part to the end. Come quickly! Melinza demands to see you, and the Governor permits it. Don't blame me, child—I can do nothing to prevent it. But, I warn you, act the part, whatever it may cost you."

I followed her, as in a dream, along the corridor, into the room where the old Governor sat in his arm-chair beside a carved table, whereon were a decanter of wine, glasses half drained, and a litter of playing-cards. He drummed upon the table with his withered fingers, and looked uneasily, first at his wife's flushed face as she entered the door, and then at the determined countenance of Melinza, who was standing before the heavy arras which divided that room from another in the rear.

"Dona Margarita," said the Governor, clearing his throat nervously, "is it so that you are detained within my house against your will?"

"Your Excellency," I began, and was thankful I could speak truth, "I, and all the other English, have been held here in San Augustin for many a long month against our will."

"Without the orders of the Spanish Council I could not liberate you, senorita; though now we purpose to do so, having authority. But concerning yourself—Melinza assures me that you do not desire to be sent with your countrymen."

I felt my heart grow cold. Must I still cling to the lie? I looked at Dona Orosia, whose black eyes flashed a warning.

"That is true, Senor de Colis," I said, and my voice sounded far off and strange.

"You would wish to remain here as my guest and companion, Margarita," said the Governor's wife in vehement tones.

I looked at her in wonder. What did they desire between them? My head swam, and I would have said Yes to her also; but her black eyes menaced me again. I drew a deep breath and shook my head. "No, please your Excellency."

Melinza smiled a slow triumphant smile. "Dona Orosia is unfortunate. I trust I shall be more successful. You would rather go to Habana as my companion,—is it not so, Margarita mia?"—and he stepped forward and held forth his hand to me.

One day in the early spring Dona Orosia had called me to see a new pet which had been brought to her, a young crocodile, loathsome and hideous; and she had forced me to touch the tethered monster as it crawled, the length of its chain, over the floor. I do remember the cold disgust I felt at the horrid contact; but it was as naught to the feeling that passed over me when I let the Spaniard take my hand.

He drew me toward him, laughing softly. "Who doubts that the lady goes willingly?" and lifted his voice with a defiant question in its ringing tones.

"I do, senor!"—and it was my dear love who pushed aside the arras and came forward into the room,—my dear love, wasted by fever and long imprisonment, white and gaunt and spectral, yet bearing himself with all his olden dignity.

The Spaniard turned to meet him, holding me still within the circle of his arm. I gave one final glance at the Governor's wife and read my cue. After that I could see nothing but my love's white face.

"Have I lied to you, Senor Englishman? Do you believe, now, that I hold that golden tress as a pledge of future favours? The lady on whose faith you were ready to stake your soul is here to answer for herself, and she has thrown in her lot with me—with me, senor."

"Margaret—Margaret!" cried my dear love, "tell him he lies, sweetheart!"

I opened my lips, but the words died on my tongue. Again my poor love cried to me, holding out his arms. I saw his white face grow paler still, and he swayed uncertainly where he stood. Then, gathering all his strength, he threw himself upon the Spaniard and would have torn us apart, had not his weak limbs given way, so that he fell prone upon the floor.

Melinza's hand went to his sword; he drew the blade and held it to my dear love's throat.



At last my voice came back to me; I laid my hand upon the Spaniard's arm. "Spare the man, Don Pedro! I like not the sight of blood!"

Then I saw mortal agony in a brave man's eyes. He made no move to rise, but lay there at my feet and looked at me.

"Margaret Tudor," he said, "do you love me still?"

I looked down at him. If I spoke truth, Melinza's blade would soon cut short his hearing of it. A wild laugh rose in my throat; I could not hold it back, and it rang out, merrily mad, in the silent room.

"Senores," I said, "Senores, I love a brave man, not a coward!" and that was truth, though none in that room read me aright, save Dona Orosia.

The man at my side laughed with me, and he at my feet gave me one look and swooned away.

Melinza sheathed his sword, saying, "Your Excellency, the prisoner appears convinced; so you can scarce doubt the evidence yourself."

The Governor cleared his throat again, and glanced helplessly toward his wife. She stepped forward with scornful composure and took my arm.

"Things are come to a pretty pass, Senor de Colis, when Don Pedro brings his prisoners under this roof and your wife is made a witness to a brawl. I crave your leave to withdraw; and I take this girl with me till the question of her guardianship is settled." Then, still holding me by the arm, she left the room; and neither of the two men ventured to stop our progress.

Arrived at my chamber Dona Orosia opened the door and thrust me in, bidding me draw the bolt securely.

I was left alone with my thoughts. Such thoughts as they are! I cannot weep; my eyes are hot and dry. There is no grief like unto this. Oh, my mother! when your beloved clasped you to his heart in that last farewell, there were between you thoughts of parting, of bodily pains to be borne, of scourgings and fetters,—aye, and of death. But what were those compared with what I have to bear, who am humbled in the sight of my dear love?



CHAPTER XVIII.

After writing these words I cast aside my pen, and, throwing myself upon the bed, buried my face in the pillow. I could feel the drumming pulses in my ears, and my heart swelled till it was like to burst within my bosom. Though I pressed my hot fingers against my close-shut eyes, I still could see my poor love's white, set face, the great hollows in his bearded cheeks, the blue veins on his thin temples, and the large eyes, one moment all love-lighted, the next, stricken with horror at the sight of my unfaith.

How long I lay there I can scarcely tell. It was many hours after noon when I heard heavy steps without my door, which suddenly began to shake as though one beat upon it with frantic hands.

"Who is there?" I cried, lifting my head.

"Oh! Mistress Margaret! a God's mercy—undo the door!"

I drew the bolt in haste, and Dame Barbara burst in and dropped down, weeping, at my feet.

"Lord love ye, Mistress Margaret! Lord help us both this day! They have sent off all our men to meet the blessed English ship—and we two poor women left behind!"

I could not think it true. I seized the weeping dame by her heaving shoulders and fairly dragged her to her feet, demanding what proof she had that this was so. She pointed dumbly to the window, and fell a-sobbing louder than before.

Then I looked out.

The Carolina frigate stood off the bar of Matanzas Bay, and over the waves, in the direction of the frigate, went a small boat impelled by the brawny arms of six swarthy Spaniards. With them were the English prisoners: I saw the honest face of Captain Baulk, and next him worthy Master Collins; also the three seamen of the Barbadian sloop; and another, whom I did not know, but guessed to be the second of the two unlucky messengers; and—in the midst of all—my dear love.

He lay full length, his white face resting against the good captain's knees; and my first thought was one of terror lest he was dead: but I saw him lift himself, and give one long look at the castle walls, then fall back as before—and I knew, in that moment, he put me from his heart for ever.

They were gone, all gone. Dona Orosia had played me false—God had turned His face from me—and the man I loved would never love me more.

I turned away from the window to the weeping dame, and I laughed, laughed again as I had done in the face of my dear love that very morn.

"The piece is near ended, dame," I said. "'Tis almost time to pray God save His Majesty and draw the curtain. But what strange tricks does Fate play sometimes with her helpless puppets! She did cast us, long ago, for a lightsome comedy, and lo! 'tis to be a tragedy instead! Think you, dear Barbara, that death would come easier by means of yonder bed-cord, or of those great scissors dangling at thy waist? Or, perhaps, if thou couldst play Othello to my Desdemona, it might seem a gentler prelude to the grave. How heavy is a lie, good dame? Think you it would drag a soul to hell? If so, I need not to go alone; for if I lied to Melinza, he also lied to me—and Dona Orosia also"—then a strong shudder shook my frame. "Barbara, Barbara, must I e'en have their company for all eternity?"

She ran to me, good soul, and hushed me like a child to her ample bosom.

"Lord help ye, dear lamb! And He will—He will!" I heard her say over and over; then everything turned dark before my eyes, and I thought death had come to me indeed.

When consciousness returned I lay upon my bed in a gray twilight, and beside me were Dame Barbara and the Governor's wife.

As my eyes fell upon Dona Orosia, I cried out bitterly that I had been a fool to trust even to her hate; for now she had grown weary of her revenge, and would discard her tool without paying the price for it.

She covered my mouth with her hand, laughing shortly.

"Melinza thinks he has been too sharp for me. He despatched the prisoners in great haste to the English ship without my knowledge. I went to him just now and demanded to know if he dared to send away Senor Rivers without leave from me.

"'Aye,' he said, and bowed to me. 'Since Dona Orosia desired for some reason to detain him here, I thought it best to be rid of him at once; but the girl remains.'

"'The girl remains in my guardianship,' said I.

"'Until to-morrow,' Melinza answered. 'To-morrow the Virgen de la Mar returns to Habana, and with her go the English girl and your humble servant.'

"'The Governor,' I cried, 'will not permit it!'

"'Will he not? Ask him,' said Melinza, 'ask his Excellency the Governor of San Augustin!' Then he laughed at me—Dios! he laughed at me!"

She bit her red lip at the remembrance, and clenched her white hands.

"And did you ask the Governor, senora?"

She nodded fiercely. "The old dotard! He did but shrug his shoulders and offer me a diamond necklace in exchange for my pretty puppet of a plaything. It is plain Melinza has some hold upon him, what it is I cannot guess; but it is stronger than my wishes. He would sooner brave my anger than oppose his nephew's schemes."

I watched the dark shadow settling on her brow, and I thought all hope was over.

"Dona Orosia," I said at last, "will you lend me your dagger?"

"Not yet, child—not unless there is no other way to thwart them both. Look—" she said, and threw a purse of gold pieces on the bed beside me. "This is your purchase money, and 'twill serve to buy assistance. When I could make no better terms, I was forced to take this and a kiss to boot—Pah!" and she rubbed her cheek. "To-morrow, when the tide is full, the Virgen de la Mar will leave the harbour. Before then I must contrive your escape."

"And Barbara's," I added, for I could see the poor dame was in deep anxiety.

Dona Orosia stared. "Upon my soul, we had all forgotten the old woman. She might have gone well enough with the other prisoners; but how am I to smuggle two women from the town?"

Then I besought her not to separate me from the dame, to whom I clung as my last friend; and after a time she yielded me a grudging promise and left me, bidding me make ready for the evening meal, at which I must appear in order not to arouse the Governor's suspicions.

My hands were cold and trembling; but with Barbara's aid I decked me out in one of the gay gowns which had been given me by my protectress, and, taking up a fan—with which I had learned the Spanish trick of screening my face upon occasion—I joined the Governor and his beautiful spouse in the brightly lighted comedor, where covers at table were laid for three. I was thankful for Melinza's absence, for to play at love-making that night would have been beyond my powers.

At first I could eat nothing; but an urgent glance from Dona Orosia, and the thought of what need there would be for all my strength prompted me to force some morsels, in spite of the convulsive swelling of my throat. I made shift, also, to answer when addressed by either host or hostess; but the Governor was in no great spirits himself and seemed to stand in some awe of his lady's frown.

Suddenly, without the door, sounded voices in altercation, and a servant entered, protesting with many apologies that there was a reverend father without who demanded to see his Excellency at once on a matter that would brook no delay.

The Governor leaned back in his chair with an air of great annoyance; but Dona Orosia said quickly, "Bid the father enter."

A tall form in a friar's dark habit appeared on the threshold. I recognized, under the cowl, the thin, sallow face and the sombre eyes. I had seen them at the door of the chapel in the castle courtyard on the night of our arrival, and many times since. They belonged to Padre Felipe, the confessor of the Governor's wife, and her adviser, I believed, in affairs temporal as well as spiritual. Something told me he had come hither at her bidding, and I glanced at her for confirmation; but Dona Orosia leaned with one elbow on the table, her chin upon her white hand, the other rounded arm outstretched with an almond in the slim fingers for the delectation of the green parrot on his perch beside her. Not a flicker of interest was visible on her beautiful, sullen face; so I turned away with some disappointment to hear what the padre was saying.

His voice was low-pitched and husky, and I could scarce distinguish what he said, save that it concerned someone who was ill—nay, dead, it seemed, and needing instant burial.

The Governor listened with a gathering scowl upon his face, till suddenly he started up with such haste that his chair fell backward with a noisy clatter.

"Santa Maria! Dead of the black vomit? And you come hither with the vile contagion clinging to your very garments!"

"Nay," said the friar's deep, hollow voice, as he lifted a reassuring hand. "I have changed my robes. You and yours are in no danger, my son."

"In no danger!" repeated the Governor, his face becoming purple and his voice choked; "no danger, when the foul carcass lies unburied, tainting the very air with death! Throw it over in the sea—nay, set fire to the miserable hut in which it lies, and let all be consumed together!"

"Who is it that is dead?" asked Dona Orosia. She had risen, and stood with one hand holding back her skirts, her full, red upper lip slightly drawn, and her delicate nostrils dilated, as though the very mention of the loathed disease filled her with disgust.

"A wretched half-breed boy, some thieving member of the padre's flock," exclaimed the Governor impatiently. "Set fire to the hut, I say!"

But Dona Orosia interrupted once again. "Padre, what is it that you desire?"

The sombre eyes were turned on her for the first time. "The boy was a Christian, my daughter, and I would give him Christian burial."

"Surely," said Dona Orosia. "What is to prevent?"

"Would you spread the infection through the town?" exclaimed the Governor, white with fear.

"Nay," said the friar, "I ask but a permit to take the body without the gates. None but I and a few of my followers need be exposed to danger. Let a bell be rung before us, to warn all in the streets to stand away; and we will carry a vessel of strong incense before the bier. Those who go out with me, I pledge you my word, shall not return for some days till they are free of all taint themselves."

"My plan is better,—to burn hut, corpse, and all," replied the Governor. But Padre Felipe turned on him fiercely.

"How shall I keep my hold upon my people, and they retain their faith in consecrated things, if you treat a Christian's body as you would the carcass of a dog?"

"As you will," the Governor exclaimed; and, throwing himself into a chair, he called for pen and paper. "Here," he added presently, "deliver this to Don Pedro de Melinza, and bid him warn the sentries at the gate. Say, furthermore, that if any one in the town comes within twenty paces of the bier, out of the gate he shall go also."

The friar received the permit silently, lifted his hand in benediction, and left the apartment.

As my glance returned from the doorway it met that of Dona Orosia, and in hers there was a passing flash of triumph. Soon after, she rose, and together we withdrew. I felt her hand upon my arm tighten convulsively; but I walked on with the same sense of unreality that had oppressed me all the day.

When we reached my chamber she bade me change my dress again for something dark and warm; for the night air was damp and chill. As I did so I slipped within my bosom the roll of closely written pages containing these annals of my prisonment. Then I asked for Barbara, and Dona Orosia quietly replied,—

"She has gone upon an errand and will join us in due time." Then she threw a mantle over my head, wrapped herself in another, and led me out into the garden.



CHAPTER XIX.

It was a moonless night, and a haze of cloud obscured the stars. We passed silently under the vine-covered arbour, across the garden, to the gateway. Into the heavy lock Dona Orosia slipped a great key; it turned easily, the door swung open, and we stepped out. Locking it once more, my companion took my arm and hurried me along the dark, deserted street. We turned a corner, came upon an open square, and paused beside a huge palmetto that grew near the centre. I heard the crisp rustle of its leaves in the night wind, and I shivered with a nameless dread.

Then, through the darkness, two dim forms approached us. My heart beat quickly, and I drew the mantle closer round my face; but one of them proved to be the friar, the other, my dear, dear Barbara. I sprang to meet her with a quick cry; but Dona Orosia laid a hand upon my lips and hurried me on. Padre Felipe now led the way, and we followed him for some moments more until he paused before a low doorway and motioned us to enter.

"Senora," I whispered, "why do you come? I have no fear of the disease, but why should you needlessly expose yourself?"

"Little fool," she answered, pushing me gently on, "there is no fever, no contagion here."

Wondering still, I entered the narrow passage, and beyond it a dimly lighted room.

On the floor lay a long wooden stretcher covered with hide; at its foot and head, fixed each in a rude socket, were two candles, still unlighted. A brass pot with long chains, and a heap of dark cloth, lay upon the floor; there was also a rough table on which stood a bottle of water and a loaf of bread; otherwise, except for a dim lamp upon the wall, the room was empty. Dona Orosia looked around, with quick eyes taking in every detail; then she turned to Padre Felipe.

"Can you trust the bearers?"

He bowed his head.

"Then the only difficulty is this old woman. Better to leave her behind."

But again I pleaded most earnestly; and presently the friar left the room and returned soon after with a dingy cloak, with which he enveloped the poor dame from head to foot.

"Let her follow behind," he said, "and if there is no trouble she may pass out with us." He charged her, then, to keep her face hidden and to stand well away from the light of the candles.

After that there was a pause, and the Spanish woman and the friar looked at each other.

"See you do not fail!" she said.

"And remember your word," he replied.

"A solid silver service for the new mission chapel at San Juan,—I swear it," was the quick response; "that is, if you succeed."

The friar folded his arms silently.

"Nay, then, in any case! only do your utmost," whispered Dona Orosia hurriedly.

"The result is as God wills it," said Padre Felipe calmly, and, pointing to the stretcher, he bade me lie down upon it. I did so, trembling in every limb, and he would have covered me over with the wrappings when the Governor's wife pushed him aside, knelt down herself, and slipped into my hand a little dagger, whispering:

"In case you are discovered."

I hid it in my bosom, thanking her. "Farewell, senora," I said, with tears, "you have been kind to me and I am very grateful. Whether or not I win freedom and friends, I believe you have done your utmost for me. I cannot think"—and I lifted my head close to hers and whispered—"I cannot think it is for revenge alone. There must be some pity prompting it."

"Thou little foolish one," she said, and laughed, pushing me back upon the bier. Then suddenly I felt a hot tear drop upon my forehead. She stooped lower and kissed me on the cheek.

I gave a little cry and would have risen again; but she drew the dark coverings over me and I could see no longer. As I felt her soft hands tucking me in, as a mother would her babe, I could only weep silently and pray God bless her.

A pungent smoke of something burning filled the room and reached me even through the coverings. I heard the padre lighting the tapers at my head and feet. After a time the stretcher on which I lay was lifted up and carried, foot foremost, from the room—out of the passage and into the street. I heard the feet of my bearers pattering on the ground as we moved onward at a swinging pace; I was conscious of the heavy smoke of burning incense that enveloped us; I heard the sound of a bell going before me, and a voice raised in a steady cry of warning; but I could see nothing save a faint radiance through the wrappings, where the candles burned.

After a time there was a halt and I heard voices in dispute. My fingers closed around the hilt of the senora's dagger. If death must come, so be it! I thought, and felt no fear, only regret that my dear love could never understand, unless the spirit that quivered so wildly within my still and shrouded form could speed to him in the first moment of its freedom and whisper the truth to his heart!

Another voice joined in. It was Melinza's own.

"Stand back!" he called loudly. "Out of the way, slaves! Who dares dispute the orders of his Excellency? If a man goes within twenty paces of that leprous crew he may follow them to perdition; but there'll be no longer any room for him within these walls!"

A murmur rose, and died away in the distance. We moved on once more. Then sounded the rattling clang of iron bars—but it came from behind us. The bell had ceased to ring; but as we moved slowly on I heard the voice of the padre chanting in a low and solemn key. Then utter silence fell, except the unshod footfall of my bearers and a murmur as of night-winds in the trees. Suddenly an owl hooted overhead, and then——I must have fainted.

I thought I was again in the Barbadian sloop, during the storm. Bound in my narrow berth I rocked and swayed, while overhead the boisterous wind howled in the rigging. The strained timbers creaked and groaned, and now and then sounded the sharp snapping of some frail spar. A woman's sobbing reached me through it all,—the low, gasping sobs of one whose breath is spent. I pushed back the covers and looked around me.

It was gray dawn in the forest. Through the tossing branches overhead I saw the pale clouds scudding beneath an angry heaven. I looked toward my feet and perceived the back of a strange man with dark head, bent shoulders, and bare brown arms grasping the sides of my litter. Some one was at my head also; turning quickly, I met his eyes looking into mine: it was Padre Felipe. I sat up, with a sudden gasp.

"Barbara!" I cried, "where are you, Barbara?"

When only the weak sobs answered me I threw myself from the litter to the ground, falling in an impotent heap with my feet entangled in the wrappings. But I caught sight of my good dame staggering on behind, half dragged, half carried by two Indian youths. Her clothing was torn and draggled, her face pitiably scratched, while great tears chased each other down her wrinkled cheeks.

The litter had stopped. Padre Felipe helped me to my feet; but I turned from him and threw my arms around Barbara's neck. She clung to me desperately, her breath catching and her voice broken as she tried to speak.

The friar took her by the shoulder roughly.

"She is worn out with tramping through the woods all night. It is no wonder! But 'twas her own doing, for she would come; now she must keep up or be left behind. We must reach shelter before the storm breaks in earnest, for it will be no light one."

A heavier gust passed while he was speaking; there was a louder moan in the tree-tops, and a broken branch crashed down at our very feet.

"Have we much farther to go?" I asked. He shook his head.

"About a league, perhaps?"

"Not more," was his reply.

"Then put the poor dame in the litter, and I will walk."

He looked intently at me. "Can you do it?"

"Better than she. I feel faint here," I added, laying my hand upon my bosom, "but my limbs are young and strong and unwearied."

"You want food," was his brief comment; and, turning to the litter, he drew out from a concealed pouch that was slung beneath it, a bottle of water, and a loaf of bread, and gave me to drink and to eat. I took it gladly, and Barbara did likewise. I thought, then, he would have taken some himself; but he put by the remainder, saying he had no need of it, and signed to the old woman to take her place in the litter, which was then raised by two of his followers. The third went in advance to clear away obstacles from the path, and we followed behind, I clinging to the padre's arm.

He said no more to me, but the touch of his hand was not ungentle. I marked how he led me over the smoothest ground, choosing the briars himself, though his feet were bare, and shielding me with his arm from the sharp blades of the dwarf palmettos that hedged the way.

As I walked beside him I could but marvel at the strange turns of Fate; for now it seemed that I would owe my deliverance, in part, to one of the very class I most hated as being the first cause of our captivity. From time to time I glanced up at his dark, stern face, and wondered whether, if I had not chanced to be his charge and under his sworn protection, he could have found it in his heart to burn me for a heretic!



CHAPTER XX.

The light grew ever stronger behind the hurrying clouds, but the deep places in the forest held their shadows still. Tall cypress-trees reared their heads amid the hollows and spread their branches like a wide canopy over our heads; huge live-oaks crowned the hummocks; and here and there great laurels lifted their pyramids of glossy, dark-green foliage. Our passage was frequently obstructed by fallen logs, mossed over with the growth of years; and tangles of vine, tough-stemmed and supple, flung themselves from tree to tree across our path, resisting our advance. All through the forest's higher corridors howled the riotous wind; but along the tunneled ways we traveled it was scarce perceptible at times.

In spite of my fatigue I felt a greater strength rising within me. We had come so far without pursuit! I began to hope as I had never done before; for was not my dear love free, and my face also set toward friends?

As I mused thus we reached a higher level, and, through a rent in the stormy sky a shaft of morning sunlight glanced across my shoulder and plunged forward into the woods beyond. I looked back, startled, and for a brief moment saw the sun's golden disc; then a black cloud effaced it from the sky.

"Padre!" I cried, "we are travelling westward!"

"Yes," he said calmly.

"Westward!" I exclaimed again. "Westward—and inland! when the English settlement lies to the north of us, upon the coast!"

He bowed again in silent acquiescence. Then my indignation broke forth, and without stopping for further question I accused him bitterly of breach of trust.

"Did you not promise Dona Orosia to deliver me to my friends?" I cried.

"What cause have you to doubt my good faith?" he asked, turning his sombre eyes toward me, but still speaking in the same calm tones. "Had I a ship at San Augustin in which we could set sail? Or could such a ship have left the harbour unperceived? Not even a canoe could have been obtained there without danger of discovery. We have a long journey before us,—could we set out upon it unprovisioned?"

I hung my head, ashamed, of my doubts. Once it was not my nature to be suspicious; but so much of trouble had come to me of late that I began to fear I would never again feel the same confidence in my fellow creatures, the same implicit trust in Heaven that I had held two years ago. I had never been a stranger to trouble; but, as a child, I knew it only as a formless cloud that cast its shadow sometimes on my path, dimming the sunlight for a moment and hushing the song upon my lips. Even when my mother died I was too young for more than a child's grief—an April shower of tears; and although my earliest maidenhood was often lonely, I had made me my own happiness with bright imaginings, and prayed God to bring them to pass. So I awaited my future always with a smile and never doubted that it would be fair. All that had gone by. Trouble had shown its face to me, and I knew it for something terrible and strong, ready to leap at my throat and crush life out of me. What wonder, then, that I walked fearfully from hour to hour?

Padre Felipe spoke again after a time. "The woods are thinning," he said. "A few more steps and we shall come out on the shores of the San Juan, near to a small village of the Yemassees, in which there are many whose eyes have been opened to the truth. There we shall find shelter from the storm, and means to pursue our journey when the clouds are past. Let us hasten; the bearers with the litter are far ahead."

He gave me his arm once more, and ere many minutes were past, we came in sight of the bold stream of the San Juan and the crowded huts of an Indian village.

The settlement did not appear to be near so large as that at Santa Catalina, nor did the buildings seem of as great size and commodiousness. The most imposing edifice I took to be the mission chapel, for before it was the great cross mounted aloft. It was circular in shape, with mud walls, and a thatched roof rising to an apex. There was a door in the side, of heavy planks battened strongly together; but I could perceive no windows, only a few very small square apertures, close under the eaves, for light and air.

The clouds were beginning to spill great drops upon our heads, so we quickened our steps into a run. The litter and its bearers had paused beside the door of the chapel, and from the neighbouring huts several Indians emerged and advanced to meet us. A young woman with a little copper-coloured babe strapped to her back, its tiny head just visible over her shoulder, peered at us from the low doorway of her mud-walled dwelling, but meeting my eyes, drew back hastily out of sight.

I was very weary, and Barbara, who had dismounted from the litter, seemed unable to stand. The padre was holding converse with those of his dark-skinned flock who had approached; so we two women crouched down under the chapel eaves and gazed around us at the wind-tossed, rain-blurred scene.

Before us was a thick grove of trees; to the left we could catch glimpses of the river, gray and angry like the sky, and all along its banks the huddled dwellings of the poor barbarians, whose ideals of architecture were no whit better than those of the wasp,—not near so complex as those of the ant and the bee.

Suddenly, while we waited there forlorn, my thoughts flew back to an English home, with its ivied walls, its turreted roof, its long facade of warm red brick. I saw green slopes, broad terraces, a generous portal, and a spacious hall; I thought of a room with an ample chimney set round with painted tiles, and I pictured myself kneeling upon the bearskin rug before a blazing fire, with my head upon my mother's knee and her fingers toying with my hair. For that moment I forgot even my dear love, and I would have given all the world just to be a little child at home.

The padre turned to us at last and motioned us to follow him. He led us to the rear of the chapel, where, plastered against the wall, was a semicircular excrescence,—a tiny cell, with a narrow door hewn from a single plank and fastened with a heavy padlock. Drawing forth a key from his belt he unlocked this and bade us enter. We did so, and he closed the door behind us.

Within, the hard earth floor was slightly raised and covered with mats of woven palmetto-leaves. A narrow chink in the wall admitted a faint ray of light, enabling us to perceive dimly the few objects which the room contained. Apparently it was Padre Felipe's sleeping apartment and the chapel vestry combined in one. There was a curtained doorway that gave access to the chapel itself; pushing aside the hangings, we could see the dim interior, empty except for the high altar set with tall candles, and a carven crucifix upon the wall.

As I caught sight of these emblems of a Christian faith I bethought me of the bloody sacrifices that had been offered to a pitiful God in the name of orthodoxy, and I wondered whether heretics like us would not be safer out in the wild woods and the driving storm—aye, even at the mercy of infidel barbarians; but suddenly I remembered the solid silver service which was to be the gift of Dona Orosia to this little new mission, and I took courage.

The rain was now pouring in torrents from the thatched roof, and the wind, which blew from the northeast, dashed it back against the mud walls of our refuge. I turned to Barbara and gave voice to an anxiety that for some time, had been growing within me.

"Dear dame," I said, "think you this storm is worse at sea?"

"Aye, my lamb,'tis from an ugly quarter; but the Carolina has weathered harder blows, and haply she has found good anchorage in some safe harbour."

I tried to think the same; nevertheless, in the long hours that we sat there, listening to the heavy gusts and beating rain, my heart went faint at the possibility of this new danger to my beloved.

It must have been past noon when the padre came to us again. He brought food with him freshly cooked,—meat and fish, and broth of parched corn-flour, not unpleasant to the taste.

"The wind is abating," he declared, "and the clouds are breaking away. When the rain ceases we may venture to pursue our journey."

I begged to know how he purposed to convey us, for neither Barbara nor I could go afoot much longer.

Then he laid his plans before us. This wide river, the San Juan, flowing by the settlement, continues northward for many miles and then curves eastward and empties itself into the sea. We were to start in two swift canoes—piraguas, he styled them—and, keeping at first under the lee of the shore, follow the river to its mouth, then proceed up the coast along the safe passage afforded by an outlying chain of islands. It would be a journey of about ten days to the Indian settlement at Santa Helena; the Indians there, he explained, were allies of our English friends and would doubtless aid us to rejoin them.

I asked if we must pass by Santa Catalina; and he said 'twas on our way, but no one there would hinder us while we were under his protection.

"Unless," he added, "the Governor of San Augustin sends out a ship to intercept us there, or anywhere upon the way; in which case there will be naught for me to do but give you up to him."

Upon that I was in a fever to be gone; for I felt that the day could not pass by without Melinza's discovering my flight, and I would endure any hardship rather than risk his intercepting us.



CHAPTER XXI.

It was not until the rain-clouds had all passed by that the padre chose to embark. The wind was still high, and our frail canoes were roughly cradled on the river's turbulent bosom.

Padre Felipe, Barbara, and I, with two Indians, filled the smaller of the two piraguas; the other held five Indians and a store of provisions for the journey.

The afternoon sky was naught but windy gloom; white clouds rolled over us in billowy folds, and tattered scarves of mist trailed lower still and seemed almost to snare their fringes on the topmost branches of the forest. Close under the protecting river-bank sped our light canoes, cutting their way through the gray waters. The dark-skinned crews bent to the paddle silently, with corded muscles tightening in their lean brown arms, and still, impassive faces fixed upon the seething current or the swiftly flying shores.

The gloom deepened slowly with the coming of the night. The waters darkened, the dun forest became black and vague. At last, to my eyes, it seemed that the sailing shadows in the sky, the inky, swirling stream, and the mysterious shores blended in one all-pervading impenetrable midnight. I could not realize that we were moving; it seemed, rather, that we alone were still, while over us and around us the spirits of the night flew past. I felt the wind of unseen wings lifting my hair; I heard the splash and gurgle of strange creatures swimming by. With my hands close locked on Barbara's arm, and wide eyes staring into nothingness, I waited for some human sound to break the palpitating silence.

Finally the padre spoke. He asked some question in the Indian tongue. One of the rowers grunted in reply, and there was a sudden cessation of the rapid paddle-strokes. Then a signal was given to the other canoe, and after some further discussion I felt that we approached the shore. There was a scraping, jarring sound, followed by the soft trampling of feet upon a marshy bank; and then a hand drew me up and guided me to land.

"The tide is running too strongly against us," explained the voice of Padre Felipe. "We will rest an hour or two and wait for it to turn."

They kindled a fire somehow and spread a blanket upon the damp ground. I remember that Barbara and I stretched ourselves upon it and I laid my head against the dame's shoulder,—then weariness overcame me.

It seemed the very next moment that I was roused; but the fire was out, and in the sky glimmered a few dim stars. There was a strange calm reigning as we re-embarked; for the wind had died and the whole aspect of the night had changed. All around us a faintly luminous sky lifted itself above the dense horizon line, and the broad bosom of the river paled to the hue of molten lead. Still brighter grew the heavens; the thin clouds drew aside, and the crescent of a waning moon spilled glory over us. And now our dark piraguas sped over the surface of a silver stream, and every paddle-blade dripped diamonds.

It is a noble river, this San Juan, with its broad sweeps and curves. At times it widens to a lake, and again thrusts itself into the shores as though its waters filled the print of some giant hand that in ages past had rested heavily with outspread fingers on the yielding soil. Aided by the strong current we glided on as swiftly as the passing hours. Our faces were set eastward now, and I waited, breathless, for the day to wake.

There was a slow parting of the filmy skies, as though Dawn's rosy fingers brushed aside the curtains of her couch; then came a gleam of golden hair that slid across her downy pillows. A long-drawn sigh shivered across the silent world, and with a sudden dazzlement we saw—

—"the opening eyelids of the Morn."

From the southwest a fresh wind arose and swept clean the blue heavens; and, with the early sunbeams sparkling on the ripples of the tide, the canoes darted on toward the river's mouth. A heron flew up from the marshes suddenly, and sailed over our heads on its strong white wings. As I watched it dip out of sight in the river far beyond us I caught sight of another gleaming wing that slowly unfurled itself toward the sky.

Touching the padre's arm, I pointed to it.

"A sail!" he said.

Our canoes quickly sought the curve of the shore and crept with caution toward the unknown vessel.

"It can scarcely be the Habana ship," murmured the padre, "for the Virgen de la Mar was at anchor in the harbour when we left San Augustin, and ere morning the storm had risen, so she would hardly have ventured forth to sea."

"There are other vessels carrying sail that ply between the fort and these coast islands. We came from Santa Catalina aboard one of them," I whispered.

"Yes," said the padre, "but this is too large." He paused for some moments, and then added: "Do you see the long, straight lines of her hull, and the square stern? This is no Spanish galley, but a frigate of English build."

"'Tis the Carolina!" I exclaimed, "'tis the Carolina!"

"Oh! the blessed, blessed English ship!" sobbed the good dame.

Then all energies were bent to reach her, for it was plain that she was making ready to leave her anchorage.

"If we could only signal to those on board!" I cried. "Loose your neck-kerchief, Barbara, and wave it—wave it in the sunlight!"

"We are too close to the shore," the padre said. "She can scarce distinguish us until we strike out into the open."

"But how plainly we can perceive her crew! And see the stir upon the decks—are they not drawing up the anchor? Oh, Padre Felipe!" I cried piteously, "wave to them! signal them! or they will leave us after all!"

The friar rose carefully to his feet; he, too, was heartily glad of this chance to be rid of his charges, and in no mind to let it slip by. With Barbara's white kerchief in his hand he was about to make another effort to attract the notice of the Carolina, when suddenly he glanced over his shoulder toward the land, his hand fell quickly to his side, and he dropped back into his seat with an exclamation of dismay.

One of the Indians rose immediately, and with shaded eyes gazed along the beach as it stretched away southward to San Augustin. He gave a grunt of acquiescence and sat down, and the motion of the paddles ceased.

"What have you seen?" I cried in agony, struggling also to my feet.

We were so near the river's mouth—almost upon the blue waves of the ocean rolling out to the shining east! Under the lee of the northern shore lay the English ship; and south of us the coast spun out its gleaming line of sandy beach away, away back to the prison we had left. But what were those dark forms that swarmed the sands?

"We are too late!" muttered the Spanish friar. "Discovering your flight, they have not waited for calm weather to follow in a swift sailing-vessel, as I had thought they would, but have sent out a search-party afoot to overtake you at the outset."

"But we must reach the Carolina before they arrive, Padre!"

"It can be done, easy enough," he answered, "but what shall I and my followers do if we are seen? Girl, I have too much at stake! I choose not to incur the Governor's anger. 'Tis not likely that they connect us with your disappearance, for Dona Orosia swore to shield me in the matter. I have done all I could. It is thus far and no farther. But you may yet escape; 'tis only a little distance to the ship; take up the paddles and make your way thither."

As he spoke he stepped from our canoe to the larger one which had closed up with us, and the two Indians followed him.

"Padre! oh, Padre! Do not leave me, do not desert me!"

They paid no heed to my appeal save to give a mighty shove to our canoe that sent it out toward midstream; then, seizing their paddles, with swift strokes they sent their own piragua speeding up the river.

It had all passed so quickly—so suddenly our hopes had been destroyed! Barbara and I had been thrown forward by the impetus given to our frail boat, and we cowered down in silence for a moment. The current was still bearing us outward; but every second our motion slackened: we would never reach the ship without some effort on our part.

I seized a paddle and worked vigorously; but the light boat only swung round and round.

"Barbara!" I cried, "take the other paddle and work with me. I can do nothing all alone!"

The dame obeyed me, sobbing and praying under her breath; but we made sorry work of it.

I looked shoreward and could see our pursuers drawing closer and closer; they had not yet perceived us, but in a moment more they could not fail to do so. As they drew still nearer, riding on his dappled gray in the midst of them, I recognized Melinza! With him were a troop of Spanish soldiers—I saw the sunlight flashing on their arms—and some twenty half-naked Indians, who might so easily swim out and drag us back to land!

"They see us! Mistress Margaret, they see us!" shouted Barbara.

"Oh! not yet, dame, not yet!" I groaned, plying the paddle wildly.

"The English, my lamb—the English see us! Look you, they are putting put a boat from the ship!"

It was true; but ere I could utter a "Thank God!" a yell from the shore told us that those fiends had seen us also. Barbara would have dropped her paddle in despair, but I ordered her sternly to make what play she could. As for me, I dipped my blade now on one side, now on the other; the trick of it had come to me like an inspiration; my fingers tightened their hold, and my arms worked with the strength born of a great terror.

Our pursuers had reached the river-shore, and a swarm of dark forms now threw themselves into the stream. But the long-boat from the frigate came toward us rapidly; I saw white English faces and heard shouts of encouragement in my mother tongue.

Then a volley of musketry rang out from the land. Instantly, the frigate made response; her heavy guns thundered forth, and the white smoke wreathed her like a cloud. But all the shots were falling short.



Nearer came the long-boat, yet nearer was the foremost swimmer. I saw his brown arms cleaving the clear tide, I saw the white eyeballs gleaming in his dark face. Friends and foes were now so close together that from the shore it was impossible to distinguish them; so the shots had ceased, and in their place rang out wild curses and savage yells. A sinewy brown hand rose from the water and seized the edge of our frail canoe, tilting it far over. The sudden jerk destroyed my balance, and in a moment I felt the waters close over my head.

Strong hands grasped me as I rose again and I battled fiercely; for I thought the Indian had me in his hold, and I chose rather, to die. But my weak strength was overcome, and I was lifted—aye, thank God!—lifted into the English boat, and Master Collins wiped the water from my face.

I saw them drag the dame in also, and then I closed my eyes. I did not faint,—never in all my life had I been so very much alive; but the sunlight and the blue sky were too bright for me.

I cannot tell much of what followed. There were a few more shots, and one of the English sailors dropped his oar and held up a bleeding hand. I sought my kerchief to bind it up for him, but I could not find it. And then, I looked up and saw the Carolina close beside us. A ringing cheer went up to heaven, and kind hands raised me to the deck. The sunburnt face of Captain Brayne bent over me, and there were tears in his honest eyes.



CHAPTER XXII.

There were other women on the ship, and one of them came forward and led me away to her cabin and aided me to rid myself of my drenched garments, lending me others in their stead. I learned from her that the Carolina had come direct from Barbadoes, bearing freight and some very few passengers,—the noise of our treatment at the Spaniards' hands deterring many who would else have ventured to throw in their lot with the young colony. Captain Brayne bore also the duplicate of the orders of the Spanish Council—which had been forwarded from England to Barbadoes; and he had been instructed by their Lordships the Proprietors, to stop at San Augustin and demand the prisoners.

All this my new friend told me during her kindly ministrations. She asked, also, many questions concerning my escape and the treatment I had received during our long captivity; but I was too exhausted to answer these at length, and begged that I might be left awhile to rest. She went away then, to get me a soothing potion from the ship's surgeon; and I made haste to unwrap the little packet that had lain hidden in my bosom, in which was the written story of my prison life. As I smoothed out the damp pages I thought of how I would place it in my dear love's hand and leave him to read all that my tongue could never say to him!

I slept for some hours and woke refreshed. Then came a message from the captain, asking if I would see him. I was eager to be out, for many reasons, the chief being my desire to see him from whom I had been so long parted; it was his face I sought first among the many familiar ones that crowded round me. Besides Captain Brayne I recognized other officers of the Carolina as the same with whom I had sailed from the Downs nearly two years ago. All my fellow prisoners—save one—greeted me joyfully and kindly. But that one missing face—where was it?

It was on my tongue to ask for Mr. Rivers; then, of a sudden, it came over me how we had parted. So! and he still believed me—that thing which I had shown myself. He had nursed his doubts for two whole days and nights, and now he would not even come forward to touch my hand and wish me joy of my escape. It seemed to me I caught glances of pity passing between one and another of the lookers-on. Did they wait to see how Margaret Tudor would bear her lover's apathy? A jilted maid!

There was a mist before my eyes; but I smiled and said little gracious words of thanks to each and all of them, and wished in my heart that I was dead. Oh, my love! whatever doubts you may have had of me were paid back that cruel moment in full measure. I recalled some of the hard speeches I had heard from the embittered Spanish woman, and I thought within myself, All men are made after the same pattern!

Captain Brayne and Master Collins and good old Captain Baulk of the Three Brothers had been in earnest conversation for some moments; and now the Carolina's commander came to me and took me gently by the hand, leading me aside.

"Mistress Margaret," he said, "there is one aboard this ship to whom your coming may mean life instead of death. He is very ill,—so ill that we despaired of him till now,—and one name is ever on his lips. Are you too weak and unstrung, my dear young lady, to go with me to his sick bed?"

That was how the truth came to me. I cannot write of what I felt.

"Take me to him," I said.

He lay in his berth; his large eyes were alight with fever, and he was talking ceaselessly, now in broken whispers, now with a proud defiance in his husky tones.

"God knows what the devils did to him," murmured Henry Brayne. "He was once a proper figure of a man; but starvation and ill usage have worn him to a shadow!"

Aye, but a shadow with a gnawing sorrow at its heart.

"You may taunt me, Senor de Melinza," whispered the broken voice, "you may taunt me with my helplessness. I may not break these bonds, it is true; but neither can you sever those that bind to me the love of a true-hearted English maid.... That is a foul lie, Don Pedro, and I cast it back into your teeth!... Strike a helpless prisoner? Do so, and you add but another black deed to the long score that stands against the name of Spaniard. Some day the reckoning will come, senor—I dare stake my soul on that!... I'll not believe it; no! not upon your oath, Don Pedro!... Margaret, Margaret! Tell him he lies, dear lady!... In God's name, speak, sweetheart!" And though I knelt beside him, and called his name again and again, he was deaf to my voice and put me by with feeble hands, crying ever: "Margaret! Margaret!" till I thought my heart would break.

Oh! the terror of this new jailer—dread Disease—that held him in its grip while Death lurked grimly in the background! For no wiles or blandishments of mine could move them or loose their hold upon the life most dear to me. When there was but man to deal with, my faith failed me and I ceased praying; now it was my punishment that only God's mercy could set my dear love free,—and it might be his pleasure to loose him in another world and leave me still on earth to mourn his loss.

As, hour after hour, I listened to his ravings, a deeper understanding of the horrors of his long captivity began to grow upon me. I could scarce forbear crying out when I thought how I had touched the hand of that vile Spaniard, and listened, smiling, when he spoke of love to me.

How terrible a thing is hatred! Heaven pardon me, but I think there is somewhat of it in my heart. Yet, now that the fever is abating, and my beloved is coming back to me from the very brink of the grave, I do pray that I may forgive mine enemy, even as God in His clemency has pardoned me!

* * * * *

He knows me at last. It was some hours ago. I was bending over him, and a light of recognition dawned in his eyes.

"Margaret! Margaret! is it you? I dreamed just now——that——that you were untrue to me!"

"Did you so, dear love?" I answered. "Forget it then, and rest; for now the fever and the dreams are past."

He smiled at me and fell asleep like a little child.

* * * * *

In the long hours that I have watched beside him I have written these last pages of my story; and some time, when he is awake and strong enough to bear the truth, I will put them all into his hand and leave him here alone. And I think, when he has read them through to the end, he will discern—between the lines—more of my heart than I have words to tell.