CHAPTER LII. — IN WHICH TALBOT TAKES OFF HER DISGUISE.
Brooke and Talbot were now alone; for, though there were one or two wounded in the room, yet these were too much taken up with their own pains to think of anything else.
Brooke's wound, after all, turned out to be but slight. The bullet had grazed his skull, making a furrow through the scalp of no greater depth than the skin, and carrying away a pathway of hair. The sudden and sharp force of such a blow had been sufficient to fell him to the floor and leave him senseless; but, upon reviving, it did not take a very long time for him to regain his strength and the full use of his faculties. The traces of the blow were soon effaced, and Brooke at last showed himself to be very little the worse for his adventure. His face was marked here and there by spots from the powder; but the blood-stains were quickly washed away, and his head was bound up in a narrow bandage made of Talbot's handkerchief. His hat, which had fallen off during his struggles with the soldiers, was now recovered, and as it was of soft stuff he was able to wear it.
"With this," said he, "Brooke is himself again."
Talbot now proceeded to wash the bloodstains from her own face.
"That looks better," said Brooke. "Streaks of blood did not improve your personal appearance."
He tried to speak in his usual careless tone, but his voice was tremulous and agitated.
"Your blood, Brooke," said Talbot, in a faltering voice—"your blood—poured out—for me!"
There was a solemn silence after this. Then Brooke leaned back and gave a heavy sigh.
"I feel a little shaky still," said he.
"Let me support you," said Talbot, with feverish eagerness. "You must be weak still—very weak. You must not exert yourself too much."
She held out her arms as though to raise him up; but Brooke drew back.
"No, no," he murmured, in a faint voice; "it's no matter—no matter at all."
Talbot looked down and said nothing.
"I don't know what happened," said Brooke. "Where is everybody? And Lopez—why did you tell him he was free? Was he a prisoner? And how? Tell me all about it."
Upon this Talbot narrated as briefly as possible the circumstances of the recent struggle.
"Where is everybody now?" asked Brooke.
"I don't know. It is enough for me that you are here, and alive and safe."
"And so you let Lopez go, after all?" asked Brooke, after another pause.
"Yes," said Talbot; "he did what I was praying for—he brought you back to life. Was I wrong?"
"Wrong or right," said Brooke, "I approve of it. Everything that you do is right in my eyes."
Talbot now began to take off the priest's dress.
"What are you doing?" asked Brooke, hastily, starting up to his feet with a quickness which showed that, as he had said, he was quite himself again.
"I have no further use for this dress now," said she. "I will take it off."
"Don't," said Brooke, imploringly. "Wear it still—at least as long as you are with me; for I shall think of you, Talbot, in that dress always, until my dying day—you in that dress—in that priest's dress, with the face of an angel of heaven. It was thus that you looked as you came between me and the levelled guns of the soldiers at the old mill Talbot, I should now be a dead man but for you."
Talbot looked at him earnestly, and a sad smile stole over her face.
"Brooke," said she, "I should now be a dead girl but for you."
They both stood face to face. Brooke's memory was now fully restored, and in his mind there was the clear and unclouded recollection of that scene which had called forth his act of self-surrender. As he looked at Talbot, he saw her eyes fastened on his with an expression such as he had seen there before more than once—a look which told him of all that was in her heart. He held out his hands. She held out hers to meet them, and he seized them in a convulsive grasp. Thus they stood, holding one another's hands, and looking into one another's eyes and hearts.
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!"