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.
"Señor," 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.
"Señor," 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, señor 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, señor 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."
"Señor 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.
"Señor 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. "Señor captain, listen. It's a mistake—She is—"
"Silence," roared Lopez, "or I'll blow your brains out!"
"Señor, 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.
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 therôleof 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.
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.
Talbot's eyes were moist with tears that trembled in them, and her lips quivered as though she was about to speak. But Brooke said not one word.
At last Talbot burst forth.
"Brooke," said she, impetuously, "you may keep silent, if you choose, but I will not, for I cannot. I will speak, Brooke. My life is yours, for you have saved it, and henceforth all old ties belonging to my old life are broken. From this time I fling all the past away forever, and begin life anew."
Brooke looked at her with unutterable agitation.
"Oh, Talbot, Talbot, what do you mean?"
Talbot drew nearer and spoke further. Her eyes were fixed on his with a deeper and more earnest gaze; her voice was low, and slow, and tremulous; and at every word there went a thrill through all the being of the man to whom she spoke. And this man to whom she spoke was one whose idol she had already grown to be; whose heart her presence filled with silent delight; through whom her glance flashed with the force of lightning; through whose frame her lightest touch could send a tremor of ecstasy. This man she now held, her hands clasped in his, her eyes fixed on his, and her lips uttering words such as he had never heard before.
"Oh, Brooke," said Talbot, "I will speak! Brooke—noble, tender heart!—you love me, and with all the strength of your soul. Honor forbids you to say this in words, but you say it in every look, and it is spoken in every tone of your voice, and I feel it in every touch of your hands. Can I not read it in your eyes, Brooke, every time that you look at me? Most of all, can I not see how you love me when you fling your life away for me? But what is that last act of yours? It is nothing more than the sequel of long acts of self-sacrifice for me! Brooke, I know that you love me, and that you love me better than all the world, and better than life itself. Keep your words to yourself, if you choose. Lock your lips tight. Save your plighted word, if you can; but, after all, your heart is mine. I know that you love me, and me only, and, Brooke—oh, Brooke! you know—well—well you know how dearly I—love—you!"
It was his Talbot who said this, and she said it to him, and she said it at the very time when he was all quivering under the influence of his own mighty love, and the magnetism of her look and of her touch. His head fell bowed down nearer to her as she spoke; he trembled from head to foot. He tore away his hands from her grasp, flung his arms around her, and strained her again and again to his breast in a convulsive energy of passion. His voice was all broken, and was scarce audible as in agitated tones he murmured in her ear,
"Talbot! Talbot, darling! I love you—I adore you! I never knew what love was, till I met you!"
These asterisks are intended to represent a long silence which succeeded the remarks above reported. The policy of silence was for them quite the most sensible under the circumstances. Until this moment they had both clung to those engagements to others which neither had forgotten, and which they had confided to each other. Each knew the other's secret. But now they both flung up those engagements and confessed their love to one another. And how such high-toned people could justify such conduct to their consciences is a problem that I, for my part, don't pretend to be able to solve.
At length they began to be aware of the existence of the outside world.
"These poor wounded," said Talbot, "require some attention. Let us go out. Let us get some water and try to make it easier for them."
Talbot now proceeded to take off the priest's dress, in which task she had been interrupted by Brooke. He again tried to dissuade her, but in vain.
"No," said she; "it only gets me into trouble. If I am to be taken prisoner again it shall be in my true character. This disguise may be useful to you."
And with these words Talbot removed the dress, and stood forth in her own proper costume—that of an English lady, as she was when Brooke first met her.
And now the two went out to procure water for the wounded prisoners.
While Brooke and Talbot were thus conversing, others were indulging in the same pursuit, and none to better purpose than Harry and Katie.
No one can say that Katie had not been very severely tried, and had not passed through a most distressing ordeal. Apart from the long trial of mind which had preceded that eventful morning, the circumstances of the final scene were enough to shake up stronger nerves than those of Katie. So completely was she prostrated, that under any other circumstances nothing could have saved her from a fit of sickness, which might possibly have resulted in brain-fever and terminated fatally, for all I know; but fortunately, under these actually existing circumstances, she was spared all this. The presence of Harry made all the difference in the world.
After retiring from the scene of conflict, they ascended into that upper chamber in which Katie had last been imprisoned, and here they seated themselves so that Katie might rest, supported by Harry's encircling arms, and at the same time be refreshed by the fresh air. Katie now began to rally with the rapidity which is characteristic of buoyant natures, and soon began to show something of her usual lightness of heart. Harry, however, though most tender and affectionate, seemed changed, and the change was soon detected by Katie's quick perception.
"What is the matter with you?" she asked. "You don't seem glad at all."
"Oh yes," said Harry. "I'm very glad indeed."
He spoke in a doleful tone of voice, which was by no means in accord with his words.
"Your voice don't sound very glad," said Katie, reproachfully, "and you look troubled. You are so preoccupied that you can't say anything. But I suppose you feel the effects of that awful scene—and oh, how awful it was!"
Katie relapsed into silence, and Harry felt somewhat relieved; for in truth he was preoccupied, and had much on his mind.
It was the thought of Talbot that filled his mind. It was she whom he had seen in that priest's disguise. It was his affianced bride whom he had lost, and now at last found! Found! Great Heaven! and here! and thus! Here—when he was here ready to die for Katie; when he was now with Katie, who had turned to him from all the world!
Was he a man of honor? Honor! The name now seemed a mockery. Which way would honor impel him? To give up Katie? What! when she had given up all for him? What! when he had fought a mortal quarrel with Ashby for her? Honor! Was not honor due to Ashby? and had he not been a traitor to his friend?
There was this fight yet before him, and it would be soon; for Ashby was free. A fight for Katie! And Talbot was here! She would know all. And she—she who had come all the way from England, who had found him not, who had imagined herself deserted—she would learn of his perfidy. The thought was horrible.
Upon such agonizing thoughts as these came Katie's question,
"Why are you so sad?"
Harry sighed.
"I'm thinking of Ashby," said he. "He's free now. He'll soon be seeking you."
At this Katie tapped her foot nervously.
"Well," said she, "if you are thinking of him it's very bad taste to say so. I wasn't thinking of him at all."
But this remark seemed to set Katie off thinking about Ashby, for she too seemed preoccupied.
"I think it's a great shame," said she.
"What?"
"Why, for Mr. Ashby to come bothering me just now."
Harry said nothing, and they both relapsed once more into silence.
The harder task was before Harry. There were two for him to face. One, the friend to whom he had been traitor; the other, his betrothed, to whom he had been false. Of these two the latter was by far the worse. He had faced Ashby already, and could face him again, as a mortal enemy, to fight a mortal battle; but Talbot! Ah! with what eyes could he look upon that pure and noble face? with what words could he address her?
Katie's thoughts seemed to be running in that channel which Harry was using for his own; for she suddenly looked at him with earnest scrutiny, and said, abruptly,
"But you are as bad."
"As bad?"
"As bad as me."
Harry sighed.
"Mr. Ashby," said Katie, innocently, "will want to see you too, you know."
"Of course," said Harry.
"Oh well, then," said Katie, "I needn't see him at all. You can explain it all; for really I hardly know what I can possibly find to say to him."
"I'm afraid," said Harry, "that he will insist on seeing you, and on learning his fate from your own lips."
"His fate!" said Katie—"oh dear!"
"I would take all the difficulty from you if I could," said Harry, "but I don't see how I can."
"Oh well," said Katie, cheerfully. "Perhaps he will not be in any very great hurry to see me, after all. He did not seem very anxious about me in the room below. He did not look like a maniac. He did not remonstrate with Lopez. He did not draw his pistol and attack the captain in the midst of his men. He did not fight for me, and risk his life. No; he thought too much of his own dear self, and left all the fighting and all the risk to one who is worth far more than ten thousand Ashbys! And that's what I'll tell him!" said Katie. "Let me see him now, while all this is fresh in my memory. Come, Harry, let us wait no longer, but if this meeting has to be, let it be now."
Katie poured forth these words in an impetuous torrent, and, starting up, led the way out. Harry followed, and thus they descended the stairway to the lower hall.
Ashby had gone out shortly after Harry and Katie, following Dolores, who was anxious to see about the gates. The six Carlists followed. The gates were wide-open, and far away a few of the fugitives could still be seen flying as fast as their feet could carry them. The six Carlists soon had the gates firmly closed and barred, and mounted guard here, deeming this to be the weak point of the castle; and thinking, too, that if an enemy appeared, he would consider six men at the gate a sign that six hundred were in the garrison.
Russell had followed the six Carlists, thinking that with them he would be safer than anywhere else. Rita had now a horror of those Carlists whom she had betrayed, and, as he thought, would venture anywhere rather than into their presence.
And now the good man felt quite martial. This new change in his situation, and the inspiring presence of his military friends, made him determine to get rid of that odious disguise which Rita had furnished him. He proceeded, therefore, to divest himself of it.
The Carlists had not noticed him thus far, and had not at all recognized him. Great was their surprise when they saw this "woman" tearing off her outer robe; but far greater was it when they saw the marvellous transformation of a commonplace woman into a resplendent general-officer all in blue and gold.
A murmur ran through them, partly of amusement, partly of approval.
One of them addressed him.
Russell shook his head.
"He is a French general," said one; "he doesn't understand us. Can't some one speak French?"
No one could.
One of them then ran inside and brought out a sword, with belt, etc., which he handed to the "French general." Russell took it, and after some trouble succeeded in buckling the martial gear around him. Then, by way of an additional safeguard against his enemy, he drew his sword, and taking his seat on a stone near the gate, glared watchfully around.
Dolores and Ashby had much to talk of, but Dolores was too prudent to waste time on mere explanations. There was yet very much to be done. Above all, they must now consider how they were to get out of the castle. After all, as far as she could see, their position had changed little, if at all, for the better. The enemy would rally. They would be attacked. No defence was possible. They would soon be prisoners or fugitives. And if they were to fly, how could they hope to escape in a country swarming with roving bands of marauders belonging to both parties? The problem was a difficult one, and one which was not to be solved very readily.
At length Dolores thought of the wounded men, and as she had a very tender heart, she proposed to go and help them. The two then returned and entered the castle.
They reached the hall at the very time when the other parties were coming into it—namely, Brooke and Talbot from the room, and Harry and Katie from the upper regions. Such coincidences are frequent in real life, and still more frequent in our "Castles in Spain."
As Brooke and Talbot came out, Ashby and Dolores, advancing toward the room, met them face to face. Brooke and Dolores looked upon one another. There was the flash of mutual recognition in the faces of both. Brooke seemed struck dumb. Dolores was the first to speak.
"Raleigh!" she said, in tones of amazement and consternation.
"Dolores!" said Brooke, in a deep, hollow voice.
Brooke was ghastly; but this may have been the effect of the recent shock. As for Dolores, every trace of color fled from her face, and she was as white as marble.
Talbot heard this, and saw it. These words, these familiar names, smote her to the heart. She recollected the story which Brooke had told her. She remembered the name of that Cuban maid. It was this—it was "Dolores!" Was this she?
She looked around in despair.
At that moment, as her despairing eyes wandered around, they fell full upon the face of Harry; for Harry and Katie on descending the stairs had, on this instant, reached the spot.
Harry saw her again.
The priest's dress was removed. She stood in her own garb—her very self—Talbot! with all her noble face revealed, and all her exquisite grace of feature and of form.
"Sydney!" said he.
"Harry!" said Talbot.
Katie heard this. She turned pale. All her thoughts fled from her; she shrank back, and stood staring. But one thought now remained—the thought suggested by that name, Sydney. Well she remembered that name, and all the incidents of that story which Harry had told her when they were first acquainted—the wreck of the ship—the maiden deserted and despairing—her rescue by Harry—their escape in the boat—their love—their plighted faith—the appointed marriage—the lost bride.
Sydney! It was she herself—the promised bride of Harry, whom he would, no doubt, be required to wed at once.
Now she understood why Harry had been so preoccupied.