MRS. RUSSELL IS DAZZLED BY A BRILLIANT PROSPECT.
On the following morning there was great excitement in Mrs. Russell's room. This was caused by one of the female attendants, who had come with the announcement that they were to be honored in a short time by a visit from "His Majesty the King."
"The King!" exclaimed Mrs. Russell, as soon as Dolores had translated this. "What King? Who is he?"
"The King!" said Dolores. "He can only be one—one single person—Don Carlos—King Charles."
"King!" cried Mrs. Russell, "and coming here! Oh dear! what shall I do? And my dresses! and my jewels! and my toilet articles! Oh, what ever—ever—ever will become of poor me!"
"Oh, auntie, it is useless to think of that," said Katie. "You are a prisoner, and no one knows that so well as the 'King,' as he calls himself."
Mrs. Russell, however, felt different, and continued her lamentations until "His Majesty" himself appeared. Great was their surprise at finding this exalted personage to be no other than their Carlist chief; but they felt still greater surprise when "His Majesty" began to address them in English, with an accent which, though foreign, was still familiar.
"We have called, ladies," said he, with a magnificent bow, "to wish yez all a good-marnmin', an' to ax afther yer healths."
The ladies murmured some reply which was not very intelligible, in which, however, the words "Your Majesty" occurred quite frequently.
"His Majesty" now seated himself upon the only seat in the room, namely, an oaken bench, and then, with a wave of his royal hand, said:
"Be sated, ladies, be sated. Let's waive all farrums an' cirimonies, an' howld conversation like frinds. Be sated, we beg; it's our r'y'l will, so it is."
The ladies looked at one another in meek embarrassment. There was nothing for them to sit on except the rough couches where they had slept; and finally, as there was nothing else to be done, they sat there, Mrs. Russell being nearest to "His Majesty," while Katie and Dolores sat farther away, side by side, holding one another's hands, and looking very meek and demure indeed.
"On sich occasions as these," said "His Majesty," "we love to dhrop all coort cirimonial, an' lave behind all our bodygyards, an' nobles, an' barr'ns, an' chamberlains, an' thim fellers, an' come in to have a chat like a private gintleman."
"Oh, 'Your Majesty!'" said Mrs. Russell, in a languishing tone, "how very, very nice it must be!"
"It is that, bedad; that's thrue for you," said "His Majesty." "An' sure it's meself that's the proud man this day at findin' that yez can put a thrue interpretation on our r'y'l Majesty."
"Ah, sire," sighed Mrs. Russell, whose eyes fell in shy embarrassment before the dazzling gaze of "His Majesty."
"Ax," resumed "His Majesty," "that seemed like thrayson to our r'y'l person have unfortunately compilled us to detain yez; but we hope it 'll be all right, an' that ye'll be all well thraited. We thrust we'll be able to come to terruños av a satisfactory character."
A murmur followed from Mrs. Russell.
"Aifairs av state," continued "His Majesty," "doesn't allow us to give full an' free play to that jaynial timpiramint that's our chafe an' layding fayture. It's war toime now, so it is, an' our r'y'l moind's got to be harsh, oystayre, an' onbinding. War wid our raybellious subjix compile us to rayjuice thim to obejience by farree av arrums."
"An' now, madame an' ladies," continued "His Majesty," after a brief pause, "I hope yez won't feel alarrumed at what I'm going to say nixt. Ye see, our Prime Ministher has conveyed to our r'y'l ear charges against your worthy husband av a traysonable nature."
"My husband!" exclaimed Mrs. Russell. "What! my John? Oh!"
"Yis," said "His Majesty." "I'm towld that he's been passing himself off as Lord John Russell, the Prime Ministher av England, an' as the spicial ambassador exthraardinary from our r'y'l cousin, the Quane av England, to invistigate the state av affairs in Spain, wid an' oi to raycognition av our r'y'l claims. As such we've honored him wid an' aujence, an' communicated to him siviral state saycrits av a highly important nature. At that toime he wint an' he tuk onjew advantage av our confidince to desayve our r'y'l moind. Upon the discovery av this offince I felt the kaynist sorrow, not for him, ladies, but for you; an' it's for your sakes that I now come here, to assure you av my tinder sympathy, an' also to ax about the fax. Is he Lord John Russell?"
Mrs. Russell had at first felt ready to faint at this woful disclosure, but she felt the eye of majesty resting on her, and she saw something there that reassured her. She afterward told Katie, in confidence, that she could understand exactly how Queen Esther had felt when Ahasuerus held out his sceptre.
"Ah, sire!" she replied. "Oh, Your Most Gracious Majesty! He isn't quite a lord, sire, it's true, but he's a gentleman."
"Sure to glory that's thrue," said "His Majesty." "Don't I know it?—meself does. He's a gintleman, so he is, ivery inch av him; an' yit may I ax, madame, what made him praytind to be a British nobleman?"
"Oh, Your Royal Majesty!" said Mrs. Russell, in deep distress.
"Spake on, fair an' beaucheous one," said "His Majesty," with great gallantry. "Spake on. Our r'y'l bosom's full, so it is, av tindirist sintimints. Power forth yer story into our r'y'l ear. Come—or—whisht! Come over here an' sit by our r'y'l side."
Saying this, "His Majesty" moved over to one end of the bench and sat there. Unfortunately, as he placed himself on the extreme end, the bench tilted up and the royal person went down. Katie, who was always yery volatile, tittered audibly and Dolores did the same. But "His Majesty" took no offence. The fact is he laughed himself, and bore it all magnanimously, in fact royally. He picked himself up as nimbly as a common person could have done.
"Be the powers!" said he, "whin the King loses his gravity, it's toime for everybody else to lose his. But come along, jool, come an' sit by our r'y'l side, an' tell us the story."
Mrs. Russell had turned quite pale at the royal fall, and paler yet at the sound of Katie's laugh, but these words reassured her. They seemed to show that she, unworthy and humble, was singled out in a special manner to be the mark of royal favor. And why? Was it on her own account, or for some other reason? She chose to consider that it was on her own account. At the renewed request of "His Majesty," which was so kind, so tender, and at the same time so flattering, she could no longer resist, but with fluttering heart, shy timidity, and girlish embarrassment, she went over to "His Majesty" and seated herself on the bench by his side.
The manner of Mrs. Russell, which had all the airs and graces of a village coquette, together with the bashfulness of a school miss, seemed to Katie and Dolores, but especially Katie, a very rich and wondrous thing. She always knew that Mrs. Russell was a gushing, sentimental creature, but had never before seen her so deeply affected. But on this occasion the good lady felt as though she was receiving the homage of the King, and might be excused if she had all the sensations of a court beauty.
Mrs. Russell now, at "His Majesty's" renewed request, began to explain the position of her husband. He was a tailor, it is true, but not by any means a common tailor. In fact, he associated exclusively with the aristocracy. He was very eminent in his profession. He had an army of cutters and stitchers under him. He was not a tailor, but a Merchant Tailor, and, moreover, he was a member of the Merchant Tailors' Association, and a man of enormous wealth.
"Sure to glory," ejaculated "His Majesty," as Mrs. Russell paused for breath, "I knowed it was just that. It makes all the differ in the worruld whether a man's only a tailor wid a small 't' or a Merchant Tailor wid capital letters."
"We keep our own carriage," continued Mrs. Russell, bridling and tossing her head, "and we have our own coat of arms and crest—the Russell arms, you know, the same as the Duke of Bedford."
"'Dade!" said "His Majesty," "so ye have the Russell arrums. I'm acquainted wid His Grace the Juke av Bedford. I seen him in Paris. He's a conniction av me own in a distant way, an' so you too must be a conniction in a distant way, being a mimber av the House av Russell."
"Oh, sire! Oh yes—may it please Your Gracious Majesty—yes, I dare say I am. Oh yes." Mrs. Russell was quite overcome at the royal condescension.
"Sure," continued "His Majesty," "we r'y'l personages always acknowledge our cousins. You're a cousin av mine, a distant one, it's thrue, but degrays don't count wid us. Wanst a cousin, alwavs a cousin."
"Ah, sire!"
"I niver knowed that ve were a cousin befoor," said "His Majesty," "or else I'd saluted ye in our r'y'l fashion, just as our cousin Quane Victoria did whin she acknowledged the Imperor Napoleon. It's our way to acknowledge relationship wid the r'y'l kiss. We call it the Kiss av State. Allow me, cousin."
And before the astounded Mrs. Russell understood his intention, "His Majesty" put his arm round her waist, and gave her a sounding smack, which seemed to Katie like the report of a pistol.
This was altogether too much for poor Katie. She had almost lost control of herself several times already, but now it was impossible to maintain it any longer, and she went off into a wild burst of laughter. It proved contagious. Dolores caught it, and clung to Katie, burying her face against her, and half hiding it behind her.
"His Majesty" dropped his "cousin" as though he had been shot, and, turning round, regarded the two young ladies for some minutes in silence, while Mrs. Russell sat rigid with horror at this shocking irreverence. But in the royal eye, as it rested on Katie, there was a merry twinkle, until at length the contagion seized upon "His Majesty" himself, and he too burst forth into peals of laughter. After this even Mrs. Russell joined in, and so it happened that the King and the three ladies enjoyed quite a pleasant season.
The King at length recovered from his laughing fit, and drew himself up as though preparing for business.
"Ye see," said he, "Misther Russell has committed an offince against our r'y'l prayrogatives, an' ayven his being our cousin doesn't help him, so it doesn't, for ye see it's a toime av danger—the habeas corpus is suspindid, thrial by jury's done up; there's only martial law, an', be jabers, there's a coort-martial in session at this blessed momint in the room overhead."
"Oh, sire," exclaimed Mrs. Russell, clasping her hands, "they're not sitting on my poor John!"
"Sure an' it's just him, an' divil a one else, so it is; an' it 'ud be mesilf that 'ud be proud to git him off if I cud, but I can't, for law is law, and there ye have it; and though we are King, yet even we haven't any power over the law. Fiat justitia, ruat coelum. I've got no more conthrol over the law than over the weather. But we've got somethin', an' that is a heart that milts at the soight av beauty in disthress."
"Oh, sire," said Mrs. Russell, "spare him!"
"His Majesty" took her hand, pressed it, and held it in his.
"Dearest cousin," said he, "ye ax impossibilities. Law is an' must be shuprame. Even now the coort is deciding. But in any evint, even the worst, ye have a frind in us—constant, tinder, an' thrue; in any evint, no matther what, moind ye, I won't forgit. Niver, niver! I'll be thrue to me word. Permit us to laymint that we had not met ye befoor the late—that is, befoor John Russell obtained this hand. Nay, dhrop not that beaucheous head, fair one. Let the r'y'l eye gaze on those charrums. Our r'y'l joy is to bask an' sun ourselves in the light av loveliness an' beauty."
The strain in which "His Majesty" spoke was certainly high-flown and perhaps extravagant, yet his intention was to express tenderness and sympathy, and to Mrs. Russell it seemed like a declaration made to her, and expressive of much more. She felt shocked, it is true, at the word "late" applied to her unfortunate husband by "His Majesty," yet the words which followed were not without a certain consolation.
"Oh, that it were possible," continued "His Majesty," "for some of us in this room to be more to one another! Oh, that some one here would allow us to hope! Let her think av all that we could do for her. She should be the sharer av our heart an' throne. Her lovely brow should be graced by the crown av Spain an' the Injies. She should be surrounded by the homage av the chivalry av Spain. She should fill the most dazzlin' position in all the worruld. She should be the cynosure av r'y'l majistic beauty. She should have wealth, an' honors, an' titles, an' dignities, an' jools, an' gims, all powered pell-mell into her lap; an' all the power, glory, moight, majisty, an' dominion av the impayrial Spanish monarchy should be widin the grasp av her little hand. What say ye, me fair one?"
All this florid harangue was uttered for the benefit of Katie, and, as he spoke, "His Majesty" kept his eyes fixed on her, hoping that she would respond by some glance or sign. Yet all the time that he was speaking he was unfortunately holding the hand of Mrs. Russell, who very naturally took all this proposal to herself. "His Majesty's" language had already seemed to convey the information that her husband had passed away from earth, and was now the "late" John Russell; and much as she might mourn over the fate of one so dear, still it could not be but that the devotion of one like "His Majesty" should touch her sensitive heart. So when these last words came, and brought what seemed to her like a direct appeal, she was deeply moved.
"What say ye, me fair one?" repeated "His Majesty" with greater earnestness, trying to catch Katie's eye.
Mrs. Russell's eyes were modestly bent downward on the floor. She clung to the royal hand.
"Oh, sire!" she murmured. "Oh, Your Royal Majesty! I am thine—yours forever—I cannot refuse!"
And flinging her arms about him, her head sank upon his shoulder.
CHAPTER XXI. — IN WHICH BROOKE AND TALBOT BEGIN TO GROW VERY WELL ACQUAINTED.
Brooke's heart sank within him as, followed by Talbot, he once more entered the old mill. He knew perfectly well that his position was one of peril, and doubly so from the part which he had been playing. The jeering laugh of these merciless soldiers kept ringing in his ears; the sneers of Lopez and his bitter taunts could not be forgotten. His disguise was no longer of any value either to himself or to Talbot; his true character, when declared, seemed even worse in the eyes of these men than his assumed one had been. To them a Carlist was far from being so bad as a newspaper correspondent; for while the one was an open enemy, the other was a secret foe, a traitor, and a spy. Moreover, in addition to this, there was the fact that he was an American, which, instead of disarming their rage, had only intensified it. These men called themselves Republicans, but they were Spaniards also; and Spaniards hate Americans. They cannot forgive the great republic for its overshadowing power which menaces them in the New World, and for the mighty attraction which it exercises upon disaffected Cubans.
Great though his own danger might be, it was not, however, for himself that Brooke feared. It was for Talbot. Trusting herself implicitly to his care and guidance, she had assumed this attire. Among the Carlists, it would have been the best of protections and the safest of disguises. Among Republicans, it was the worst of garbs. For many of the Spanish Republicans were full of French communistic sentiments, and were ready to wage war with all priests, and ecclesiasts of all forms of religion. What could save Talbot from their murderous hands? It was too late now for her to go back. She must remain a priest, since to reveal herself in her true character would be to rush on to certain destruction. As a priest, however, she was exposed to inevitable danger; she must brave all perils; and to Brooke there seemed not one ray of hope for her safety.
They went back to the loft, and here they remained in silence for some time. At length Brooke spoke.
"Talbot!"
"Well, Brooke."
"Give me your hand."
The slender hand of Talbot stole into his. It was as cold as ice.
"Talbot!" said Brooke, in a tremulous voice, holding her hand in a firm grasp.
"Well, Brooke."
"Do you understand the danger we are in?"
"Yes, Brooke."
"Do you forgive me for my share in bringing you into it?"
"Brooke," said Talbot, reproachfully, "such a question is ungenerous. I am the only cause of your present danger. If you had been alone, without such a fatal incubus as me, you might easily have escaped; or, rather, you would never have fallen into danger. Oh, I know—I know only too well, that you have thrown away your life—or, rather, risked it—to save me."
As Talbot ended, her voice died away in scarce audible tones, which were full of indescribable pathos.
Brooke gave a short laugh, as usual.
"Pooh!" said he. "Tut—tut; stuff and nonsense. Talbot, the fact is, I've been a blockhead. I've got you into a fix, and you're the sufferer. Now I'm quite ready to die, as I deserve, for getting you into danger; but the mischief of it is, what's going to become of you? I swear to you, Talbot, this is now my only fear."
"Brooke," said Talbot, in mournful tones, "every word of yours is a reproach to me. You force me to remember how base I have been in allowing you to sacrifice yourself for me. Oh, if I could only recall the past few hours! if we were only back again in the tower, I would never let you go with me; I would make my journey alone, and—"
"I think," interrupted Brooke, "that I shall have to shut up. Come, now, let's make a bargain. I'll say no more about it, if you don't. Is it a bargain?"
"I suppose so."
There was silence now for a short time, after which Brooke said:
"Talbot, lad, you don't object, do you, to my holding your hand?"
"Object, Brooke? Certainly not."
"It seems to have the effect," said Brooke, "of soothing me, and of making my self-reproach less keen."
"When you hold my hand, Brooke," said Talbot, in a low voice, whose tremor showed unusual feeling, "I feel stronger, and all my weakness leaves me. And I like best of all what you said to me about my not being a girl. I love to have you call me 'Talbot,' for it sounds as though you have confidence in poer me; but, best of all, I love to hear you say 'Talbot, lad;' for it seems as though you look on me as your equal. Your tone is that of a brave man addressing his comrade, and the very sound of your voice seems to drive all my fear away."
"Good boy!" said Brooke, in a harsh, husky voice. After which, he cleared his throat violently, but said nothing further for a while.
"You see, Talbot, lad," said he, at last, "it is this: I have a feeling that I can't get rid of, and I've had it ever since we left the tower. The feeling is this—that you are my younger brother. You don't understand. I'll tell you about him."
"Your younger brother!" said Talbot, in a low voice, soft and unutterably sweet. Then a little sigh followed, and she added: "And that I will try to be to you, Brooke, until this danger is over. But you must bear with me, and not be angry if I turn out sometimes to be a coward."
"A coward?" said Brooke. "Come, I like that. Why, Talbot, boy though you are, there is enough stuff in you to fit out half a dozen men. You're a Talbot, to begin with; and, in addition to that, you are that sort of a person that you would let yourself be torn in pieces for the sake of a comrade."
"I'm glad you think that of me," said Talbot, gently.
"I was going to tell you about my younger brother," said Brooke. "We were in Cuba together, where the fighting was—just such a country as this—and I was trying to work my way along between the two forces so as to get to Matanzas. The danger was frightful. Neither side gave any quarter. It was a war of savages, and my chief anxiety was for poor Otto. But you never saw any one pluckier than he was—as cool, as calm, as fearless as though he was in a parlor. So we went for weeks."
"And what became of him?" asked Talbot, as Brooke paused.
"We escaped," said he, "and reached Matanzas—but there—the poor boy—died. So you see, Talbot, since you have joined me my memory goes back to those Cuban days; and whenever I say to you 'Talbot, lad,' it seems as though I am speaking to my dear lost Otto. And here let me say, Talbot, that if I ever seem familiar, you must not think it want of respect; think rather that I am mistaking you for Otto, and forgive it."
"Do not say that," said Talbot. "I should prefer to have you think of me as 'Otto,' and even call me 'Otto.'"
"No, Talbot, boy, you have your own name, and by that I will call you."
"It is strange, Brooke," said Talbot. "We have only known one another for a short time, but it seems as though we had been friends for a lifetime. I suppose this is owing to the feeling of comradeship which has sprung up between us—or perhaps because you think of me as your younger brother. For my part, I feel as though we two were comrades, like soldiers that we read of, only my part in the business will be a miserable one, I fear. We are brothers in arms, Brooke, aren't we?"
"Brothers in arms," said Brooke, in a soft, gentle tone; "yes, Talbot, lad, that's exactly what we are. Yes, comrade, we have a fight before us, and only each other to rely on."
"In our family," said Talbot, "there is a cimeter which is an heirloom. It was brought from the East during the Crusades by an ancestor. While there, he was wounded and taken prisoner by a Saracen emir named Hayreddin. This Saracen treated him with chivalrous generosity, and a warm friendship sprung up between them. They exchanged arms, the Saracen taking Talbot's sword, while Talbot took Hayreddin's cimeter. Hayreddin set Talbot free. Afterward he himself was taken prisoner, and Talbot was fortunate enough to procure his freedom. The cimeter is the very one which my ancestor brought back from the Holy Land."
"You and I," said Brooke, in a cheery tone, "will be Talbot and Hayreddin. You are the Christian knight, and I am the heathen. It's a pity we can't exchange arms."
"Yes, we can't very well do that."
"We can exchange something at any rate, comrade," said Brooke. "You have my priest's dress—let me have something of yours by way of exchange."
"But what can I give?" said Talbot.
"Anything, from a needle to a needle-gun. It would be better if portable—an old ribbon, a portable pincushion, a bootlace."
"I have something," said Talbot, suddenly, "if you will take it, Brooke; but perhaps you will think it only a bother."
"No, Talbot, lad, brother—brother in arms, and comrade of mine!—nothing that you can give shall be regarded as other than a comrade's pledge."
Talbot withdrew her hand, which Brooke had been holding all this time.
"Here is something," said she. "It will do better than anything else."
"What is it?" asked Brooke, who could not see in the gloom what it was that she offered.
"A ring," said Talbot, in a voice that had sunk to a whisper.
"A ring," repeated Brooke. "Is it your ring, Talbot? Then put it on my finger with your own hands, comrade, and I swear to you by a soldier's word that it shall never leave me, either in life or death."
Talbot made no reply, but put the ring, which she had detached from her own finger, upon the little finger of Brooke's left hand.
Not a word was said by either, and there was now a long silence, which was finally broken by Brooke.
"Talbot," said he, "don't you think you can sleep a little?"
"I'll try."
"Do. If you could only sleep a little, I should feel very glad indeed."
"I'll try," said Talbot again, "and you must not suppose that I am awake."
Talbot now drew off for a little distance, while Brooke remained as before, and was left to his own meditations. All was still within, and outside the sounds gradually lessened, until at length they were heard no more. Slowly the time passed, and to Brooke it had never in his life seemed so long. Not a sound escaped from Talbot. Was she asleep?
"Talbot, lad!" said Brooke, in a low voice.
"Well, Brooke," was the gentle reply.
"Have you been asleep?"
"Oh—well—a little."
"No, Talbot," said Brooke, "you have not been asleep. And you say that you were merely to make it pleasant for me. You are full of anguish, Talbot, but you keep up a cheerful tone so as not to add to my burdens. You see I know it all, Talbot, and understand you thoroughly, so there need not be any further dissimulation."
"Brooke," said Talbot, "you are feverish from anxiety, and fanciful. Be yourself. Sing one of your droll songs. Talk nonsense. If you go on in this mournful strain, you will make me break down utterly."
At this Brooke drew a long breath.
"Forgive me, Talbot," he said. "I really don't know what has come over me. If I were alone I could sleep as sound as a top, but anxiety about another is a different thing. Still, you are right, and I mean to turn the conversation to some other subject. A song, did you say? Very well. By-the-bye, did you ever hear this?
"'Oh, Jenny Jones was a lovely gal,
And her mother worked a mangle;
She fell in love with a fine yonng lad,
Who played on the triangle.'"
Brooke hummed this, and then stopped.
"I never heard it before," said Talbot. "Sing the rest. Now you are yourself again.
Whatever you feel, Brooke, don't speak of it, but laugh, and jest, and sing old scraps of songs."
"I won't," said Brooke. "I'll sing nothing more, and I'll say nothing more."
Talbot made no reply.
Brooke was true to his resolution, and said not another word. Talbot was as silent as he. Each had thoughts which were all-engrossing. Neither spoke, but each knew perfectly well that the other was wide awake, and full of care.
Thus the night passed away, with its long, long hours. It seemed interminable; but at length it came to an end, as all nights must, however long. The dawn came, and the two could see each other. Each sat propped up against the wall. Neither one spoke for a long time, until it was broad day, when Brooke, who had been watching Talbot's face until it grew fully revealed, broke the silence with a slight cough. Talbot turned and smiled.
"Good-morning," said Brooke. "We seem to be having quite a spell of weather. Quite a fine view from these windows. You haven't been out yet, I suppose?"
"Not yet," said Talbot.
"Well," said Brooke, "we must take a walk after breakfast:
"'Oh, if I was the owner of London town,
I'd buy my love a scarlet gown—
A gown of scarlet bombazine,
And away we'd travel to Gretna Green.'"
"Have you ever been there?" asked Talbot, trying to assume Brooke's own careless tone.
"Yes, Talbot; of course I have. Every American makes a pilgrimage there when he visits England. As the poet says:
"'I have been there, and still would go;
'Tis like a little heaven below.'
Talbot!"
Brooke's voice changed.
"Well, Brooke."
"Can you be sure of yourself this day? Can you stand it?"
"Yes, Brooke."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Brooke."
"Oh, Talbot, Talbot! don't shrink! Oh, Talbot, don't falter! For my sake, don't let me see you falter, Talbot, or I shall break down. Alone I could let myself be tortured to death by Comanches, and I'd sing my death-song as bravely as Mullins Bryan; but mark this, Talbot: if you break down, if you even falter, I'm a lost, ruined, and dishonored man. Will you remember that, Talbot?"
As he spoke these words, Brooke's voice had a thrill in it that Talbot had never heard before.
"Brooke," said she, "I will be firm. Rather than show any weakness, I will die."
"That's very good," said Brooke. "Your hand on it, Talbot."
She held out her hand. He pressed it with a convulsive grasp.
"You will not forget?" he asked, eagerly.
"I cannot forget," she answered, simply.
"Good lad!" said Brooke. He dropped her hand, and at once resumed his careless manner. "And now," said he, "we can continue our music:
"'For there the historic blacksmith stands—'
Gretna Green, you know—
"'And hammers away at the marriage bands.'
Only he don't do so now, you know, for he's dead and gone, and they've got new marriage laws."
Not long after this a man came up with a flask of wine and some rolls. Brooke took them from him and brought them over.
"Talbot," said he, "you don't want to eat—in fact, at this moment you hate food. But while I am with you I'm your master, and I now command you to eat. Moreover, let me add that it is necessary to eat, or else you may grow faint; and then, when there comes a chance of escape, you won't be able to walk, and I shall have to carry you, don't you see? And now won't you eat, just for the sake of saving me from unnecessary fatigue?"
"I will eat if you will," said Talbot.
"Eat!" exclaimed Brooke. "What! I eat? Oh, well, I don't mind. For that matter, I'd just as soon eat a pair of boots as not."
He broke off a fragment of bread and ate it. Talbot did the same, and thus both forced themselves to eat, and each did this for the sake of the other.
They said nothing while thus forcing themselves to eat. The thought that was present to each was enough to occupy the mind, and it was one which could not be put in words. Brooke saw Death awaiting himself, and, worse than that, he saw Talbot—alone, friendless, despairing, in the hands of remorseless fiends. Talbot, on the other hand, saw Death awaiting Brooke, and never could shake off the torturing thought that his death was owing to her, and that he was virtually dying for her. Had it not been for her he might still have been safe. And it seemed to her to be a very hard and bitter thing that such a man as this should have to die in such a way, and that she should be the cause. Ah! it became very hard for her to keep her promise to maintain her coolness, and to force back those tears and those cries that were ready to burst forth beyond control. Yet such was this girl's high nature that she could crush down her weak woman's heart, and turn toward Brooke a face in which there was not a trace of emotion, and speak in a voice without a tremor.
Soon a man appeared once more, thrusting his head up into the loft, and in a stern voice he ordered them to come down.
Brooke rose. He did not look at Talbot. He walked toward the ladder, droning out in a nasal whine, to a most extraordinary tune, the following words:
"Come on, you tarnal Mingo,
I'll make you walk your chalks;
D'ye think I care, by jingo!
For all yer tomahawks!
I'm more of Salamander
And less of mortal man:
You cannot shake my dander,
I'm a rale American!"
At the opening he paused, and looked back at Talbot's pale face.
"Did you ever hear the death-song of Mullins Bryan?" he asked.
"No," said Talbot.
"H'm! I suppose not," said Brooke.
He then went down, and Talbot followed.