"What, my own maid?—Dowlas?"
"I am ver sorry, but it is not dat one. It is anoder—an Italian."
"Well, I think that isveryunkind, when youknowI can't speak a word of the language. But youalwaysdo all you can to tease me. IwishI had never seen you."
Girasole looked hurt.
"Charming mees," said he, "I will lay down my life for you."
"But I don't want you to lay down your life. I want Dowlas."
"And you sall haf Dowlas to-morra. An' to-night you sall haf de Italian maid."
"Well, I suppose I must," said Minnie, resignedly.
"Miladi," said Girasole, turning to Mrs. Willoughby, "I am ver sorry for dis leetle accommodazion. De room where you mus go is de one where I haf put de man dat try to safe you. He is tied fast. You mus promis you will not loose him. Haf you a knife?"
"No," said Mrs. Willoughby, in a scarce audible tone.
"Do not mourn. You sall be able to talk to de prisonaire and get consolazion. But come."
With these words Girasole led the way out into the hall, and into the front-room on the opposite side. He carried the lamp in his hand. Mrs. Willoughby saw a figure lying at the other end of the room on the floor. His face was turned toward them, but in the darkness she could not see it plainly. Some straw was heaped up in the corner next her.
"Dere," said Girasole, "is your bed. I am sorra. Do not be trouble."
With this he went away.
Mrs. Willoughby flung herself on her knees, and bowed her head and wept convulsively. She heard the heavy step of Girasole as he went down stairs. Her first impulse was to rush back to her sister. But she dreaded discovery, and felt that disobedience would only make her fate harder.
(see caption)
"ONE ARM WENT AROUND HER NECK."
Ina few moments Girasole came back and entered Minnie's room. He was followed by a woman who was dressed in the garb of an Italian peasant girl. Over her head she wore a hood to protect her from the night air, the limp folds of which hung over her face. Minnie looked carelessly at this woman and then at Girasole.
"Charming mees," said Girasole, "I haf brought you a maid for dis night. When we leaf dis you sall haf what maid you wis."
"That horrid old fright!" said Minnie. "I don't want her."
"You sall only haf her for dis night," said Girasole. "You will be taken care for."
"I suppose nobody cares for whatIwant,"said Minnie, "and I may as well speak to the wall, for all the good it does."
Girasole smiled and bowed, and put his hand on his heart, and then called down the stairs:
"Padre Patricio!"
A solid, firm step now sounded on the stairs, and in a few moments the priest came up. Girasole led the way into Hawbury's room. The prisoner lay on his side. He was in a deep sleep. Girasole looked in wonder at the sleeper who was spending in this way the last hours of his life, and then pointed to the coffin.
"Here," said he, in Italian, "is the body. When the grave is dug they will tell you. You must stay here. You will not be afraid to be with the dead."
The priest smiled.
Girasole now retreated and went down stairs.
Soon all was still.
The Italian woman had been standing where she had stopped ever since she first came into the room. Minnie had not paid any attention to her, but at last she noticed this.
"Iwishyou wouldn't stand there in that way. You really make me feel quite nervous. And what with the dark, and not having any light, and losing poor dear Kitty, and not having any chair to sit upon, really one's life is scarce worth having. But all this is thrown away, as you can't speak English—and how horrid it is to have no one to talk to."
The woman made no reply, but with a quiet, stealthy step she drew near to Minnie.
"What do you want? You horrid creature, keep away," said Minnie, drawing back in some alarm.
"Minnie dear!" said the woman. "H-s-s-s-h!" she added, in a low whisper.
Minnie started.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
One arm went around her neck, and another hand went over her mouth, and the woman drew nearer to her.
"Not a word. H-s-s-s-h! I've risked my life. The priest brought me."
"Why, my darling, darling love of an Ethel!" said Minnie, who was overwhelmed with surprise.
"H-s-s-s-h!"
"But how can I h-s-s-s-h when I'm so perfectly frantic with delight? Oh, you darling pet!"
"H-s-s-s-h! Not another word. I'll be discovered and lost."
"Well, dear, I'll speak very, very low. But how did you come here?"
"The priest brought me."
"The priest?"
"Yes. He was sent for, you know; and I thought I could help you, and he is going to save you."
"He! Who?"
"The priest, you know."
"The priest! Is he a Roman Catholic priest, Ethel darling?"
"Yes, dear."
"Andheis going to save me this time, is he?"
"I hope so, dear."
"Oh, how perfectly lovely that is! and it was so kind and thoughtful in you! Now this is really quite nice, for you know I'velongedso to be saved by a priest. These horrid men, you know, all go and propose the moment they save one's life; but a priestcan't, you know—no, not if he saved one a thousand times over. Can he now, Ethel darling?"
"Oh no!" said Ethel, in a little surprise. "But stop, darling. You really mustnotsay another word—no, not so much as a whisper—for we certainlywillbe heard; and don't notice what I do, or the priest either, for it's very, very important, dear. But you keep as still as a little mouse, and wait till we are all ready."
"Well, Ethel dear, I will; but it's awfully funny to see you here—and oh,sucha funny figure as you are!"
"H-s-s-s-h!"
Minnie relapsed into silence now, and Ethel withdrew near to the door, where she stood and listened. All was still. Down stairs there was no light and no sound. In the hall above she could see nothing, and could not tell whether any guards were there or not.
Hawbury's room was at the back of the house, as has been said, and the door was just at the top of the stairs. The door where Ethel was standing was there too, and was close by the other, so that she could listen and hear the deep breathing of the sleeper. One or two indistinct sounds escaped him from time totime, and this was all that broke the deep stillness.
She waited thus for nearly an hour, during which all was still, and Minnie said not a word. Then a shadowy figure appeared near her at Hawbury's door, and a hand touched her shoulder.
Not a word was said.
Ethel stole softly and noiselessly into Hawbury's room, where the priest was. She could see the two windows, and the priest indicated to her the position of the sleeper.
Slowly and cautiously she stole over toward him.
She reached the place.
She knelt by his side, and bent low over him. Her lips touched his forehead.
The sleeper moved slightly, and murmured some words.
"All fire," he murmured; "fire—and flame. It is a furnace before us. She must not die."
Then he sighed.
Ethel's heart beat wildly. The words that he spoke told her where his thoughts were wandering. She bent lower; tears fell from her eyes and upon his face.
"My darling," murmured the sleeper, "we will land here. I will cook the fish. How pale! Don't cry, dearest."
The house was all still. Not a sound arose. Ethel still bent down and listened for more of these words which were so sweet to her.
"Ethel!" murmured the sleeper, "where are you? Lost! lost!"
A heavy sigh escaped him, which found an echo in the heart of the listener. She touched his forehead gently with one hand, and whispered,
"My lord!"
Hawbury started.
"What's this?" he murmured.
"A friend," said Ethel.
At this Hawbury became wide awake.
"Who are you?" he whispered, in a trembling voice. "For God's sake—oh, for God's sake, speak again! tell me!"
"Harry," said Ethel.
Hawbury recognized the voice at once.
A slight cry escaped him, which was instantly suppressed, and then a torrent of whispered words followed.
"Oh, my darling! my darling! my darling! What is this? How is this? Is it a dream? Oh, am I awake? Is it you? Oh, my darling! my darling! Oh, if my arms were but free!"
Ethel bent over him, and passed her arm around him till she felt the cords that bound him. She had a sharp knife ready, and with this she cut the cords. Hawbury raised himself, without waiting for his feet to be freed, and caught Ethel in his freed arms in a silent embrace, and pressed her over and over again to his heart.
Ethel with difficulty extricated herself.
"There's no time to lose," said she. "I came to save you. Don't waste another moment;it will be too late. Oh, do not! Oh, wait!" she added, as Hawbury made another effort to clasp her in his arms. "Oh, do what I say, for my sake!"
She felt for his feet, and cut the rest of his bonds.
"What am I to do?" asked Hawbury, clasping her close, as though he was afraid that he would lose her again.
"Escape."
"Well, come! I'll leap with you from the window."
"You can't. The house and all around swarms with brigands. They watch us all closely."
"I'll fight my way through them."
"Then you'll be killed, and I'll die."
"Well, I'll do whatever you say."
"Listen, then. You must escape alone."
"What! and leave you? Never!"
"I'm safe. I'm disguised, and a priest is with me as my protector."
"How can you be safe in such a place as this?"
"I am safe. Do not argue. There is no time to lose. The priest brought me here, and will take me away."
"But there are others here. I can't leave them. Isn't Miss Fay a prisoner? and another lady?"
"Yes; but the priest and I will be able, I hope, to liberate them. We have a plan."
"But can't I go with you and help you?"
"Oh no! it's impossible. You could not. We are going to take them away in disguise. We have a dress. You couldn't be disguised."
"AndmustI go alone?"
"You must."
"I'll do it, then. Tell me what it is. But oh, my darling! how can I leave you, and in such a place as this?"
"I assure you I am not in the slightest danger."
"I shall feel terribly anxious."
"H-s-s-s-h! no more of this. Listen now."
"Well?"
Ethel bent lower, and whispered in his ear, in even lower tones than ever, the plan which she had contrived.
Ethel's plan was hastily revealed. The position was exceedingly perilous; time was short, and this was the only way of escape.
It was the priest who had concocted it, and he had thought of it as the only plan by which Hawbury's rescue could be effected. This ingenious Irishman had also formed another plan for the rescue of Minnie and her sister, which was to be attempted in due course of time.
Now no ordinary mode of escape was possible for Hawbury. A strict watch was kept.The priest had noticed on his approach that guards were posted in different directions in such a way that no fugitive from the house could elude them. He had also seen that the guard inside the house was equally vigilant. To leap from the window and run for it would be certain death, for that was the very thing which the brigands anticipated. To make a sudden rush down the stairs was not possible, for at the door below there were guards; and there, most vigilant of all, was Girasole himself.
The decision of the Irish priest was correct, as has been proved in the case of Dacres, who, in spite of all his caution, was observed and captured. Of this the priest knew nothing, but judged from what he himself had seen on his approach to the house.
The plan of the priest had been hastily communicated to Ethel, who shared his convictions and adopted his conclusions. She also had noticed the vigilance with which the guard had been kept up, and only the fact that a woman had been sent for and was expected with the priest had preserved her from discovery and its consequences. As it was, however, no notice was taken of her, and her pretended character was assumed to be her real one. Even Girasole had scarcely glanced at her. A village peasant was of no interest in his eyes. His only thought was of Minnie, and the woman that the priest brought was only used as a desperate effort to show a desire for her comfort. After he had decided to separate the sisters the woman was of more importance; but he had nothing to say to her, and thus Ethel had effected her entrance to Minnie's presence in safety, with the result that has been described.
The priest had been turning over many projects in his brain, but at last one suggested itself which had originated in connection with the very nature of his errand.
One part of that errand was that a man should be conveyed out of the house and carried away and left in a certain place. Now the man who was thus to be carried out was a dead man, and the certain place to which he was to be borne and where he was to be left was the grave; but these stern facts did not at all deter the Irish priest from trying to make use of this task that lay before him for the benefit of Hawbury.
Here was a problem. A prisoner anxious for escape, and a dead man awaiting burial; how were these two things to be exchanged so that the living man might pass out without going to the grave?
The Irish priest puzzled and pondered and grew black in the face with his efforts to get to the solution of this problem, and at length succeeded—to his own satisfaction, at any rate. What is more, when he explained his plan to Ethel, she adopted it. She started, it is true; she shuddered, she recoiled from it at first, but finally she adopted it. Furthermore, she took it upon herself to persuade Hawbury to fall in with it.
So much with regard to Hawbury. ForMinnie and her sister the indefatigable priest had already concocted a plan before leaving home. This was the very commonplace plan of a disguise. It was to be an old woman's apparel, and he trusted to the chapter of accidents to make the plan a success. He noticed with pleasure that some women were at the place, and thought that the prisoners might be confounded with them.
When at length Ethel had explained the plan to Hawbury he made a few further objections, but finally declared himself ready to carry it out.
The priest now began to put his project into execution. He had brought a screw-driver with him, and with this he took out the screws from the coffin one by one, as quietly as possible.
Then the lid was lifted off, and Hawbury arose and helped the priest to transfer the corpse from the coffin to the straw. They then put the corpse on its side, with the face to the wall, and bound the hands behind it, and the feet also. The priest then took Hawbury's handkerchief and bound it around the head of the corpse. One or two rugs that lay near were thrown over the figure, so that it at length looked like a sleeping man.
Hawbury now got into the coffin and lay down on his back at full length. The priest had brought some bits of wood with him, and these he put on the edge of the coffin in such a way that the lid would be kept off at a distance of about a quarter of an inch. Through this opening Hawbury could have all the air that was requisite for breathing.
Then Ethel assisted the priest to lift the lid on.
Thus far all had been quiet; but now a slight noise was heard below. Some men were moving. Ethel was distracted with anxiety, but the priest was as cool as a clock. He whispered to her to go back to the room where she belonged.
"Will you be able to finish it?" she asked.
"Sure an' I will—only don't you be afther stayin' here any longer."
At this Ethel stole back to Minnie's room, and stood listening with a quick-beating heart.
But the priest worked coolly anddextrously. He felt for the holes to which the screws belonged, and succeeded in putting in two of them.
Then there was a noise in the hall below.
The priest began to put in the third screw.
There were footsteps on the stairs.
He screwed on.
Nearer and nearer came the steps.
The priest still kept to his task.
At last a man entered the room. Ethel, who had heard all, was faint with anxiety. She was afraid that the priest had not finished his task.
Her fears were groundless.
Just as the foremost of the men entered the room the priest finished screwing, and stood bythe coffin, having slipped the screw-driver into his pocket, as calm as though nothing had happened. Three of the screws were in, and that was as many as were needed.
The men brought no light with them, and this circumstance was in the priest's favor.
"You've been keeping me waiting long," said the priest, in Italian.
"You may be glad it wasn't longer," said one of them, in a sullen tone. "Where is it?"
"Here," said the priest.
The men gathered around the coffin, and stooped down over it, one at each corner. Then they raised it up. Then they carried it out; and soon the heavy steps of the men were heard as they went down the stairs with their burden.
Ethel still stood watching and listening.
As she listened she heard some one ascending the stairs. New terror arose. Something was wrong, and all would be discovered. But the man who came up had no light, and that was one comfort. She could not see who it was.
The man stopped for a moment in front of Minnie's door, and stood so close to her that she heard his breathing. It was quick and heavy, like the breathing of a very tired or a very excited man. Then he turned away and went to the door of the front-room opposite. Here he also stood for a few moments.
All was still.
Then he came back, and entered Hawbury's room.
Now the crisis had come—the moment when all might be discovered. And if so, they all were lost. Ethel bent far forward and tried to peer through the gloom. She saw the dark figure of the new-comer pass by one of the windows, and by the outline she knew that it was Girasole. He passed on into the shadow, and toward the place where the straw was. She could not see him any more.
Girasole stepped noiselessly and cautiously, as though fearful of waking the sleeper. At every step he paused and listened. The silence reassured him.
He drew nearer and nearer, his left hand groping forward, and his right hand holding a pistol. His movements were perfectly noiseless.
His own excitement was now intense, his heart throbbed fiercely and almost painfully as he approached his victim.
At last he reached the spot, and knelt on one knee. He listened for a moment. There was no noise and no movement on the part of the figure before him.
In the gloom he could see the outline of that figure plainly. It lay on its side, curled up in the most comfortable attitude which could be assumed, where arms and legs were bound.
"How soundly he sleeps!" thought Girasole.
He paused for a moment, and seemed to hesitate; but it was only for a moment. Then, summing up his resolution, he held his pistol close to the head of the figure, and fired.
(see caption)
"HE HELD HIS PISTOL CLOSE TO THE HEAD, AND FIRED."
The loud report echoed through the house. A shriek came from Minnie's room, and a cry came from Mrs. Willoughby, who sprang toward the hall. But Girasole came out and intercepted her.
"Eet ees notin," said he, in a tremulous voice. "Eet ees all ovair. Eet ees only a false alarm."
Mrs. Willoughby retreated to her room, and Minnie said nothing. As for Ethel, the suspense with her had passed away as the report of the pistol came to her ears.
Meanwhile the coffin was carried out of the house, and the men, together with the priest, walked on toward a place further up the shore and on the outskirts of the woods. They reached a place where a grave was dug.
At this moment a pistol-shot sounded. The priest stopped, and the men stopped also. They did not understand it. The priest did not know the cause of the shot, but seeing the alarm of the men he endeavored to excite their fears. One of the men went back, and was cursed by Girasole for his pains. So he returned to the grave, cursing every body.
The coffin was now lowered into the grave, and the priest urged the men to go away and let him finish the work; but they refused. The fellows seemed to have some affection for their dead comrade, and wished to show it by putting him underground, and doing the last honors. So the efforts of the Irish priest, though very well meant, and very urgent, and very persevering, did not meet with that success which he anticipated.
Suddenly he stopped in the midst of the burial service, which he was prolonging to the utmost.
"Hark!" he cried, in Italian.
"What?" they asked.
"It's a gun! It's an alarm!"
"There's no gun, and no alarm," said they.
All listened, but there was no repetition of the sound, and the priest went on.
He had to finish it.
He stood trembling and at his wit's end. Already the men began to throw in the earth.
But now there came a real alarm.
Thereport of the pistol had startled Minnie, and for a moment had greatly agitated her. The cry of Mrs. Willoughby elicited a response from her to the effect that all was right, and would, no doubt, have resulted in a conversation, had it not been prevented by Girasole.
Minnie then relapsed into silence for a time, and Ethel took a seat by her side on the floor, for Minnie would not go near the straw, and then the two interlocked their arms in an affectionate embrace.
"Ethel darling," whispered Minnie, "do you know I'm beginning to get awfully tired of this?"
"I should think so, poor darling!"
"If I only had some place to sit on," said Minnie, still reverting to her original grievance, "it wouldn't be so very bad, you know. I could put up with not having a bed, or a sofa, or that sort of thing, you know; but really I must say not to have any kind of a seat seems to me to be very, very inconsiderate, to say the least of it."
"Poor darling!" said Ethel again.
"And now do you know, Ethel dear, I'm beginning to feel as though I should really like to run away from this place, if I thought that horrid man wouldn't see me?"
"Minnie darling," said Ethel, "that's the very thing I came for, you know."
"Oh yes, I know! And that dear, nice, good, kind, delightful priest! Oh, it was so nice of you to think of a priest, Ethel dear! I'm so grateful! But when is he coming?"
"Soon, I hope. Butdotry not to talk so."
"But I'm only whispering."
"Yes, but your whispers are too loud, and I'm afraid they'll hear."
"Well, I'll try to keep still; but it's soawfullyhard, you know, when one hassomuch to say, Ethel dear."
Minnie now remained silent for about five minutes.
"How did you say you were going to take me away?" she asked at length.
"In disguise," said Ethel.
"Butwhatdisguise?"
"In an old woman's dress—but hu-s-s-s-sh!"
"But I don'twantto be dressed up in an old woman's clothes; they make mesucha figure. Why, I'd be a perfect fright."
"Hu-s-s-s-sh! Dear, dear Minnie, you're talking too loud. They'll certainly hear us," said Ethel, in a low, frightened whisper.
"Butdo—dopromise you won't take me in an old woman's clothes!"
"Oh, there—there it is again!" said Ethel. "Dear, dear Minnie, there's some one listening."
"Well, I don't see what harm there is in what I'm saying. I only wanted—"
Here there was a movement on the stairs just outside. Ethel had heard a sound of that kind two or three times, and it had given her alarm; but now Minnie herself heard it, and stopped speaking.
And now a voice sounded from the stairs. Some Italian words were spoken, and seemed to be addressed to them. Of course they could make no reply. The words were repeated, with others, and the speaker seemed to be impatient. Suddenly it flashed across Ethel's mind that the speaker was Girasole, and that the words were addressed to her.
Her impression was correct, and the speaker was Girasole. He had heard the sibilant sounds of the whispering, and, knowing that Minnie could not speak Italian, it had struck him as being a very singular thing that she should be whispering. Had her sister joined her? He thought he would go up and see. So he went up softly, and the whispering still went on. He therefore concluded that the "Italian woman" was not doing her duty, and that Mrs. Willoughby had joined her sister. This he would not allow; but as he had already been sufficiently harsh he did not wish to be more so, and therefore he called to the "Italian woman."
"Hallo, you woman there! didn't I tell you not to let the ladies speak to one another?"
Of course no answer was given, so Girasole grew more angry still, and cried out again, more imperatively:
"Why do you not answer me? Where are you? Is this the way you watch?"
Still there was no answer. Ethel heard, and by this time knew what his suspicion was; but she could neither do nor say any thing.
"Come down here at once, you hag!"
But the "hag" did not come down, nor did she give any answer. The "hag" was trembling violently, and saw that all was lost. If the priest were only here! If she could only have gone and returned with him! What kept him?
Girasole now came to the top of the stairs, and spoke to Minnie.
"Charming mees, are you awake?"
"Yes," said Minnie.
"Ees your sistaire wit you?"
"No. How canshebe with me, I should like to know, when you've gone and put her in some horrid old room?"
"Ah! not wit you? Who are you whisperin' to, den?"
Minnie hesitated.
"To my maid," said she.
(see caption)
"WHAT DIT YOU COME FOR?"—"FOR HER."
"Does de maid spik Inglis?" asked Girasole.
"Yes," said Minnie.
"Ah! I did not know eet. I mus have a look at de contadina who spiks Inglis. Come here, Italiana. You don't spik Italiano, I tink. Come here."
Ethel rose to her feet.
Girasole ran down, and came back after a few minutes with a lamp. Concealment was useless, and so Ethel did not cover her face with the hood. It had fallen off when she was sitting by Minnie, and hung loosely down her shoulders from the strings which were around her neck. Girasole recognized her at one glance.
"Ah!" said he; and then he stood thinking. As for Ethel, now that the suspense was over and the worst realized, her agitation ceased. She stood looking at him with perfect calm.
"What dit you come for?" he asked.
"Forher," said Ethel, making a gesture toward Minnie.
"What could you do wit her?"
"I could see her and comfort her."
"Ah! an' you hope to make her escape. Ha,ha! ver well. You mus not complain eef you haf to soffair de consequence. Aha! an' so de priest bring you here—ha?"
Ethel was silent.
"Ah! you fear to say—you fear you harma de priest—ha?"
Minnie had thus far said nothing, but now she rose and looked at Girasole, and then at Ethel. Then she twined one arm around Ethel's waist, and turned her large, soft, childish eyes upon Girasole.
"What do you mean," she said, "byalwayscoming here and teasing, and worrying, and firing off pistols, and frightening people? I'm sure it was horrid enough for you to make me come to this wretched place, when youknowI don't like it, without annoying me so. Why did you go and take away poor darling Kitty? And what do you mean now, pray, by coming here? I never was treated so unkindly in my life. I did not think thatany onecould be so very, very rude."
"Charming mees," said Girasole, with a deprecating air, "it pains me to do any ting dat you do not like."
"It don't pain you," said Minnie—"it don't pain youat all. You'realwaysteasing me. Youneverdo what I want you to. You wouldn't even give me a chair."
"Alas, carissima mia, to-morra you sall haf all! But dis place is so remote."
"It isnotremote," said Minnie. "It's close by roads and villages and things. Why, here is Ethel; she has been in a village where there are houses, and people, and as many chairs as she wants."
"Oh, mees, eef you will but wait an' be patient—eef you will but wait an' see how tender I will be, an' how I lof you."
"Youdon'tlove me," said Minnie, "one bit. Is this love—not to give me a chair? I have been standing up till I am nearly ready to drop. And you have nothing better than some wretched promises. I don't care for to-morrow; I want to be comfortable to-day. You won't let me have a single thing. And now you come to tease me again, and frighten poor, dear, darling Ethel."
"Eet ees because she deceif me—she come wit a plot—she steal in here. Eef she had wait, all would be well."
"You mustn'tdareto touch her," said Minnie, vehemently. "Youshallleave her here. Sheshallstay with me."
"I am ver pain—oh, very; but oh, my angel—sweet—charming mees—eet ees dangaire to my lof. She plot to take you away. An' all my life is in you. Tink what I haf to do to gain you!"
Minnie looked upon Girasole, with her large eyes dilated with excitement and resentment.
"You are a horrid, horrid man," she exclaimed. "Ihateyou."
"Oh, my angel," pleaded Girasole, with deep agitation, "take back dat word."
"I'm sorry you ever saved my life," said Minnie, very calmly; "and I'm sorry I ever saw you. Ihateyou."
"Ah, you gif me torment. You do not mean dis. You say once you lof me."
"Idid not say I lovedyou. It wasyouwho said you lovedme.Inever likedyou. And I don't really see how Icouldbe engaged to you when I was engaged to another man before. He is the only one whom I recognize now. I don't know you at all. For I couldn't be bound to two men; could I, Ethel dear?"
Ethel did not reply to this strange question.
But upon Girasole its effect was very great. The manner of Minnie had been excessively perplexing to him all through this eventful day. If she had stormed and gone into a fine frenzy he could have borne it. It would have been natural. But she was perfectly unconcerned, and her only complaint was about trifles. Such trifles too! He felt ashamed to think that he could have subjected to such annoyances a woman whom he so dearly loved. And now he was once more puzzled. Minnie confronted him, looking at him fixedly, withoutone particle of fear, with her large, earnest, innocent eyes fastened upon his—with the calm, cool gaze, of some high-minded child rebuking a younger child-companion. This was a proceeding which he was not prepared for. Besides, the child-innocence of her face and of her words actually daunted him. She seemed so fearless, because she was so innocent. She became a greater puzzle than ever. He had never seen much of her before, and this day's experience of her had actually daunted him and confounded him. And what was the worst to him of all her words was her calm and simple declaration, "I hate you!"
"Yes," said Minnie, thoughtfully, "it must be so; and dear Kitty would have said the same, only she was so awfully prejudiced. And I always thought he was so nice. Yes, I think I really must be engaged to him. But as for you," she said, turning full upon Girasole, "I hate you!"
Girasole's face grew white with rage and jealousy.
"Aha!" said he. "You lofhim. Aha! An' you were engage tohim. Aha!"
"Yes, I really think so."
"Aha! Well, listen," cried Girasole, in a hoarse voice—"listen. He—he—de rival—de one you say you are engage—he is dead!"
And with this he fastened upon Minnie his eyes that now gleamed with rage, and had an expression in them that might have made Ethel quiver with horror, but she did not, for she knew that Girasole was mistaken on that point.
As for Minnie, she was not at all impressed by his fierce looks.
"I don't think you really know what you're talking about," said she; "and you're very, very unpleasant. At any rate, you are altogether in the wrong when you say he is dead."
"Dead! He is dead! I swear it!" cried Girasole, whose manner was a little toned down by Minnie's coolness.
"This is getting to be awfully funny, you know," said Minnie. "I really think we don't know what one another is talking about. I'm sureIdon't, and I'm surehedon't, either; does he, Ethel darling?"
"De Inglis milor," said Girasole. "He is dead."
"Well, but I don't mean him at all," said Minnie.
"Who—who?" gasped Girasole. "Who—who—who?"
"Why, the person I mean," said Minnie, very placidly, "is Rufus K. Gunn."
Girasole uttered something like a howl, and retreated.
Girasoleretreated half-way down the stairs, and then he stopped for some time and thought. Then he came back and motioned to Ethel.
"You must come," he said, gruffly.
"You shall not," said Minnie.
"No, no, darling," said Ethel; "I had better go. It will only get you into fresh trouble. And I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Oh, how Ihateyou!" said Minnie to Girasole. The latter said nothing. Ethel kissed Minnie, and descended the stairs after him.
The Irish priest was standing over the grave bathed in a cold perspiration, his heart throbbing violently, every new thud of the earth, as it sounded violently against the coffin, sending a cold chill of horror through every nerve. Already enough earth had been thrown to cover three-quarters of the lid, and at the foot it was heaped up some distance. He tried to frame some excuse to get the men away. His brain whirled; his mind was confused; his thoughts refused to be collected.
And now, in the midst of this, the attention of all was attracted by a loud stern voice, which sounded from some one near. The priest looked around. The men stopped shoveling, and turned to see the cause of the noise.
Girasole was seen approaching, and was already near enough to be distinguished. Behind him followed a female form. At this sight the priest's mind misgave him.
Girasole came up, and now the priest saw that the female was no other than Ethel.
"Where is this priest?" asked Girasole, angrily, speaking, of course, in Italian.
The priest advanced.
"I am here," said he, with quiet dignity.
At this change in the state of affairs the priest regained his presence of mind. The cessation in the work gave him relief, and enabled him to recall his scattered and confused thoughts. The men stood looking at the speakers, and listening, leaning on their shovels.
"You were sent for?"
"Yes."
"And a maid?"
"Yes."
"You brought this lady?"
"Yes."
"You put her in disguise; you passed her off as an Italian?"
"Yes."
The priest made no attempt at denial or equivocation. He knew that this would be useless. He waited for an opportunity to excuse himself, and to explain rather than to deny. But every answer of his only served to increase the fury of Girasole, who seemed determined to visit upon the head of the priest and Ethel the rage that he felt at his last interview with Minnie.
"Then why," cried Girasole, "did you try to trick us? Don't you know the punishment we give to spies and traitors?"
"I have nothing to do with spies and traitors."
"You are one yourself."
"I am not."
"You lie!"
"I do not," said the priest, mildly. "Hear me, and let me tell my story, and you will see that I am not a traitor; or, if you don't wish to listen, then question me."
"There is but one question. What made you bring this lady?"
"That is simply answered," said the priest, with unfaltering calmness. "This lady and her friends arrived at my village and claimed hospitality. They were in distress. Some of their friends had been taken from them. A message came from you requesting my presence, and also a lady's-maid. There was no stipulation about the kind of one. This lady was the intimate friend of the captive, and entreated me to take her, so that she should see her friend, and comfort her, and share her captivity. I saw no harm in the wish. She proposed to become a lady's-maid. I saw no harm in that."
"Why did she disguise herself?"
"So as to pass without trouble. She didn't want to be delayed. She wanted to see her friends as soon as possible. If you had questioned her, you would no doubt have let her pass."
"I would, no doubt, have done nothing of the kind."
"I don't see any objection," said the priest.
"Objection? She is a spy!"
"A spy? Of what, pray?"
"She came to help her friend to escape."
"To escape? How could she possibly help her to escape? Do you think it so easy to escape from this place?"
Girasole was silent.
"Do you think a young lady, who has never been out of the care of her friends before, could do much to assist a friend like herself in an escape?"
"She might."
"But how? This is not the street of a city. That house is watched, I think. There seem to be a few men in these woods, if I am not mistaken. Could this young lady help her friend to elude all these guards? Why, you know very well that she could not."
"Yes; but then there is—"
"Who?"
"Yourself."
"Myself?"
"Yes."
"What of me?"
"What do I know about your designs?"
"What designs couldIhave? Do you thinkIcould plan an escape?"
"Why not?"
"Why not? What! living here close beside you?Ibe a traitor?I, with my life at your mercy at all times—with my throat within such easy reach of any assassin who might choose to revenge my treachery?"
"We are not assassins," said Girasole, angrily.
"And I am not a traitor," rejoined the priest, mildly.