A Castle in Spain: A Novel

by James De Mille

STORY.

Harry paused a little longer, and then said, "Well, you see, the friend that I wanted to see is a lady."

"Of course," said Katie; "that's a self-evident fact. I know that, and she is your ladylove. But I want to know all about her, and, first of all, her name."

"I didn't think that you thought I was thinking of a lady," said Harry.

"What a ridiculous observation!" said Katie; "and I know you only say that to tease me, when you know I'm so curious about this friend of yours."

"Well," said Harry, "in the first place, her name is Talbot."

"Talbot? What else?"

"Sydney—Sydney Talbot."

"Sydney Talbot! But that isn't a girl's name; it's a man's name."

"At any rate," said Harry, "it's her name."

"Well, but hasn't she some pet name—something more feminine, such as 'Minnie,' for instance, or 'Nellie,' or 'Kittie,' or 'Florrie,' or something of that sort?"

"No; her only name is Sydney Talbot. You see, Sydney is a family name, and had to be perpetuated. She had no brothers, and so it was given to her. Her father's name was also Sydney Talbot, and her grandfather's, and—"

"And her great-grandfather's," chimed in Katie, "and so on up to Noah; but his name, at any rate, was not Sydney Talbot. Now this is a very romantic beginning, so go on. I will only remark that I intend to be great friends with your wife some day, and that I've made up my mind to call her 'Syddie.' She is actually pining for a pet name. But what do you call her?"

"I? Oh, I call her Miss Talbot."

"Miss! You call her Miss—Talbot? What a horrible idea! And you pretend to love her!" cried Katie, reproachfully.

"Well—but, you know, Sydney is too stiff."

"Then why not invent a name? Call her 'Poppet,' or 'Topsy,' or 'Fifine,' or 'Rosie,' or 'Gracie.' Why, I could supply you with fifty or sixty names on the spot. But this is all idle trifling. Go on and tell me more. Give a full and complete account of yourself and your 'own one.'"

"Well, you know, I'm doing business in Barcelona, and we were engaged to be married last year."

"Did you see her last in Barcelona?"

"No, in England, last year. I met her in London."

"Have you not seen her since?"

"No. We have corresponded ever since, and this marriage was arranged by letter."

"Oh, but you're not married yet?" said Katie, in a low voice.

"No," said Harry, "and Heaven only knows when we ever shall be."

"Why?"

"Oh, well—because there's been such a muddle about it all. You see, I proposed, and was accepted, in the usual course of things."

"Ah, now, Mr. Rivers," said Katie, "that's not fair!"

"Fair! what isn't fair?"

"Why, you're skipping all the best part."

"The best part? I don't understand."

"Well, I mean you're leaving out all the love parts. I want to hear all about your love affair—how you first saw her; how you felt; how she treated you; how you were tormented by the pangs of jealousy, agitated by hope and fear, until you knew that she was yours. And you have the heart to skip all this and go on to the stupid, commonplace end of it!"

Harry laughed.

"Well," said he, "the end of my case has not yet come; and the farther on I go the more exciting it grows. But I'll tell you all if you want me to. Shall I begin at the beginning, and tell you how I first became acquainted with her?"

"Yes, yes, do!" said Katie, eagerly.

"Well, it was at sea, in a tremendous gale, when we both were face to face with death."

At this Katie threw up her eyes, clasped her hands, and exclaimed,

"Oh, how perfectly exquisite! how utterly delicious! how quite too awfully jolly! But when? where? Oh, do go on!"

"It was aboard the steamer from Marseilles to Leghorn. During the night after leaving a furious storm arose. The steamer was an old rattletrap, and soon began to leak fearfully. I was in my berth, trying to sleep, when at last I was roused by a yell from all the crew and passengers. I rushed out and on deck, and saw the sea all breaking in foam over the vessel. The passengers and crew were all mixed up in a wild, confused mass, trying to scramble into the boats. This was made visible by the lightning flashes at intervals, after which everything would become as black as night. I saw that nothing could be done, so I took my station near the mizzen shrouds, and held on there, waiting for the end. While here I saw a female figure crouching down under the bulwarks and clinging there. Partly out of pity, and partly for the sake of having something to do, I helped her up to her feet, held her up in that position, and told her to cling to the shrouds, and stay by me as long as she possibly could.

"At length, in the midst of a flash of lightning, I happened to notice that the jolly-boat was hanging from the davits astern. No one was near: every one was running about forward. I determined to make an effort for life. The woman was almost senseless, so I half carried, half dragged her to the boat and got her in. Then I passed a line around the seat of the boat and secured her to it; after which I began to lower the boat down. This was a deuced hard job, but I managed it at last. Then I jumped in, and cut the line that held us, and away we went in the boat, which was sent spinning along like a feather over the boiling sea. I don't know how we kept afloat, but we did. The woman never spoke one word. So we passed a fearful night, and at length morning came. Then the woman began to cry bitterly. I soothed her as well as I could.

"We were in a terrible situation. The storm had nearly gone down, but we were threatened with something worse, for we had neither water nor provisions. I gave my companion some brandy, which revived her. We were far away out of sight of land, and no sails were visible anywhere. I had a couple of oars, and with these I pulled toward the north. My companion soon regained her composure and her strength, and we were able to discuss our prospects. She told me her name and destination. She was on her way to Rome to join her father, in company with an aged relative and her maid. Her father had been ill, and had been living in Italy for his health. She was anxious about him, but still more troubled about her relative, who had been left on board the steamer.

"Miss Talbot was very beautiful, and the most unselfish person I ever saw. She was perpetually trying to lighten my labor. She insisted on taking an oar and trying to row. She bore up most uncomplainingly against our hardships. In fact, she acted like a regular brick. Of course, before I had talked with her half an hour I was head over heels in love with her."

"But it's awfully nice to have your life saved, and be alone together in a boat like that," said Katie. She spoke in an injured tone, as though a shipwreck was something highly desirable, which a harsh fate had cruelly kept away from her.

"Well," continued Harry, "we starved, and starved, and choked with thirst, for two or three days; but she never uttered one single murmur."

"I should think not," said Katie. "What had she to complain of? What more could she want? Why, it was utterly lovely! I'm sure I shouldn't care to eat one single bit if I were in such a situation. I could not be hungry at such times—I never am. Hungry, indeed!"

The idea was too absurd, so Katie dismissed it with scorn.

"I could see," continued Harry, "that she was suffering. Her face grew paler and paler. She was evidently growing weaker. She looked at me piteously—"

"Oh, you will be so prosaic!" interrupted Katie. "Can't you see that it wasn't hunger at all? It's the old, old story:

"'Then her cheek was pale, and thinner
Than should be for one so young,
And her eyes on all my motions
With a mute observance hung.'

"And I said," continued Katie—

"'And I said, my dearest Pard'ner,
Speak, and speak the truth to me;
Trust me, Pard'ner; all the current
Of my being turns to thee.'

"The fact is," she added, abruptly, "I believe you're making up nearly the whole of this!"

"Making it up!" cried Harry. "Me! Why?"

"Why, because such delightful situations never do occur in real life. It's only in fiction."

"No, really, now—it was really so," said Harry. "Why should I make this up? Really, on my honor—"

"Well, you're coloring the facts, at least," said Katie. "If it's all true, I think it's hard on poor people like me, that never can find any pleasant excitement to break the monotony of life. But never mind—please go on."

"Well," continued Harry, "we drifted on for several days. We saw vessels, but they were too far away to see us. At last we came in sight of land, and there we were picked up by a boat that took us to Leghorn. I then went on with Miss Talbot to Rome. I learned that we were the only ones that had been saved out of the ill-fated steamer. Miss Talbot's father, who, as I said, was an invalid, had heard the news, and, thinking his daughter lost, sank under the blow. On our arrival at Rome he was dead. It was a mournful end to our journey.

"He was buried in Rome. Miss Talbot returned to England with an English family, with whom her father had been acquainted. I did not intrude on her just then, but paid her a visit afterward. At that time we came to an understanding, and then I went back to Barcelona. And now I come to the real point of my story—the thing that I was going to tell you."

"Oh, I'm so very much obliged," said Katie, "for what you've told me thus far!"

"Now, Miss Talbot, you must know, has very few relatives. She's the last of an ancient family, and one or two uncles and aunts are all that are left besides herself. Her life has been by no means gay, or even cheerful, and perhaps that was one reason why she was willing to accept me."

"How delightful it is," said Katie, "to see such perfect modesty! Mr. Rivers, you are almost too diffident to live!"

"Oh, but really I mean that a girl like Miss Talbot, with her wealth, and ancient family, and social standing, and all that, might have the pick of all the best fellows in the country."

"That stands to reason; and so you imply that when such a lady chose you, you—"

"Ah, now, Miss Westlotorn, I didn't," said Harry. "I'm not so infernally conceited as all that, you know."

"But hadn't she promised in the boat?"

"In the boat! Well, yes—"

"Of course: then why did she have to choose you again?"

"Oh, well—in the boat it was an informal sort of thing. But never mind. She promised to marry me, and I went back to Barcelona. We then corresponded for about a year."

"How awfully dreary!" sighed Katie. "I do so detest letter-writing! If I had to write letters, I would break the engagement."

"Well, it's a bother, of course," said Harry; "but, after all, a letter is the only substitute one can have for the absent one."

"And how long is it since you last saw her?"

"A year."

"A year! Why, you must have utterly forgotten what she looks like. Should you be able to recognize her, if you were to meet her in a crowd?"

"Oh yes," said Harry, with a laugh. "Now you must know that when I was engaged I expected to go to England in about three months' time to get married. Business, however, detained me. I hoped to go again, a few months later. But the fact is, I found it impossible; and so on for a whole year I was detained, until at last I had to write, imploring her to come out to me and be married in Barcelona."

"Well, for my part, I never would marry a man unless he came for me," said Katie.

"Then I'm glad," said Harry, "that you are not Miss Talbot. She was not so cruel as that; for though at first she refused, she at last consented and promised to come. This, however, was only after long begging on my part, and a full explanation of the difficulties of my position. So she consented, and finally mentioned a certain day on which she would leave; and that was about a fortnight ago.

"Now, you know, all the time, I felt awfully about her having to come on alone, until at length, as ill-luck would have it, it so happened that I was able to steal a few days from my business. So I determined, after all, to go on for her. Fool that I was, I didn't telegraph! There was no time to write, of course. You see, I was such an idiot that I only thought of giving her a pleasant surprise. This filled my mind and occupied all my thoughts, and all the way on I was chuckling to myself over my scheme; and I kept fancying how delighted she would be at finding that, after all, she would not have to make the journey alone. I was so full of this that I couldn't think of anything else. And now I should like to ask you calmly, Miss Westlotorn, one simple question: Did you ever hear in all your life of such a perfect and unmitigated chuckle-head?"

"Never!" said Katie, in a demure tone.

"Well," continued Harry, ruefully, "luck was against me. I met with several delays of a tedious kind, and lost in all about two days. At last I got to my destination, and then—then—in one word, there came a thunder-clap. What do you think?"

"What?"

"She was gone!"

"Gone?"

"Yes. She had gone the day before my arrival. She had written again, and had telegraphed. She had then set out, expecting me to receive her with all a lover's eagerness at Barcelona, at the hotel which I had mentioned to her in my last letter, and hoping also that I might possibly turn up at any station after passing the Pyrenees. What do you think of that? Wasn't that a blow? And was it my fault?"

"Certainly not," said Katie, in a soothing voice. "Not your fault, only your misfortune. But what did her friends say?"

"Her friends? Oh, they were awfully indignant, of course, but I couldn't wait to explain it all to them. The moment I found out how it was, I turned on my heel and hurried back to Barcelona. I travelled night and day. I got there without any interruption, and rushed to the hotel where, according to my direction, she was to have gone."

"Well," asked Katie, as Harry paused, "was she there?"

"No," said Harry; "but, worst of all, she had been there! Yes, she had been there. She had made the journey; she had reached Barcelona; and I—I, for whom she had come, I was not there to meet her. Well, when I did get back she was gone."

"Gone?—gone where?"

"Why, where else could she have gone but home again?"

"True. Being a girl of spirit, she never could stand such treatment as that. But did she leave no message for you?"

"Not a word, either in writing or in any other way. I asked the hotel people about her, but they knew nothing in particular. She had not told anything about herself. She had come, and, after two or three days, had gone. She had gone only the day before I got back."

"And you, of course, must have started after her all the way back to England, and that's the reason why you are here—"

"Yes," said Harry: "the only hope I had was to overtake the train that preceded me. It was not impossible that it might be delayed, and that my train should come up with hers. That was my only hope, but of course all this is now up."

"Oh, well," said Katie, in a consoling tone, "you'll see her again before long, and you can explain it all; and when she finds out that it all arose from an excess of zeal, she will see that your fault was one on the right side, and she will love you all the better. And so you will both have many and many a laugh over this queer misadventure; and it will be something that will give flavor and spice to all your future life. Why, I'd give anything to have just such an adventure—I would, really. I wish I was in Miss Talbot's place. I quite envy her—I do, really; that is," she added, with a little confusion, "her adventure, you know."

"You have such a nice way of putting things," said Harry, "that I wish I could always have you to go to for sympathy."

"Sympathy?" said Katie. "Oh, you know that's quite my forte."

Harry looked into her clear, sunny eyes as they were raised to his, full of brightness, and archness, and joyousness.

"And won't you let me call you 'Katie,'" said he, "just while we're travelling together? I feel so awfully well acquainted with you, you know; and I've told you all about my affairs, you know, just as if you were my oldest friend."

"I should like it above all things," said Katie. "I hate to be called Miss Westlotorn by my friends. It's too formal."

"And you must call me 'Harry,'" said this volatile young man. "You will, now, won't you?" he added, in a coaxing tone.

Katie did not prove obdurate.

"Well—Harry," she said, with a bewitching smile.

"I think you're awfully nice," said Harry.

"Well, I'm sure I think you're a very nice boy," said Katie, in a childish way.

For some time longer the party continued their journey. Harry and Katie found walking so much pleasanter than riding in the rude cart that they refused to get into the vehicle again, although urged to do so very strongly both by Mr. and Mrs. Russell. For his part, Harry declared that he infinitely preferred walking; and Katie, on being appealed to, said that the jolts of the wagon made her head ache. So these two continued their walk.

Gradually it grew darker, and the twilight deepened with the rapidity common in southern latitudes. Then, fearing lest Katie might be fatigued, Harry made her take his arm. After this, being still full of anxious fears lest so fair and fragile a being might sink under the wearisome tramp, he took her little hand as it lay on his arm, and held it in his for all the rest of the way. And what Ashby would have said or thought if he had seen that, is more than I can tell, I'm sure.

The moon was shining, and its brilliancy was wonderful. Now they entered among the mountains. Far on high ascended the lofty wooded slopes on one side, while on the other they descended into a valley. Beyond this there were other heights, while in the valley between there was a beautiful winding river. A turn in the road brought them at length to a place where the valley widened, and far away, shining like silver in the moonbeams, flowed the river,

"With many a winding through the vale."

All around rose an amphitheatre of hills, some wooded, some precipitous, and behind these rose the summits of loftier mountains far into the sky.

Here, full before them, there arose a grand and stately castle. Perched upon the crest of a spur where it projected from the flank of a mountain, it stood before the new-comers the centre of the whole scene, the crown and glory of it all. In the garish sunlight there might have been perceptible many and many a mark wrought by the destructive hand of time, for ages had passed since it first reared its lordly form on high. Its architecture spoke of hoar antiquity, of a time long past, when the Moor still fought around these scenes, and rushed to the fight to the war-cry of Allah Akbar! But now, bathed in the mellow moonlight, this ancient castle showed all its grand proportions, with not a trace of decay or desolation; and its massive walls arose in solemn majesty; its battlements frowned in heavy shadows overhead; its lofty towers and turrets seemed still able to defy the assaults of time for ages yet to come.

For some time past the country had been growing steadily wilder and less peopled, until here there seemed a virtual solitude. On reaching the spot the party found a massive gate-way with a ponderous portal. Beyond this opened the court-yard, and in the distance rose the keep. Here lights shone, and the noise of revelry came to their ears.

And now the prisoners entered and were taken in charge by others, and Ashby, who arrived about an hour afterward, was also taken to his quarters.

---

CHAPTER VIII. — HOW THE SPANISH PRIEST MEETS WITH A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

The train, which had been released by the Carlists, went on its way, and after running about ten miles, came to a little town. Here a long stay was made, during which information was received of so serious a character that it was resolved, for the present at least, not to go any farther. In the first place, the train which had immediately preceded had halted at the next station beyond, and this train could not move until the other had started; but, in addition to this, there came reports of all sorts, to the effect that the whole country was swarming with Carlists, who had occupied the lines of railroad and cut the telegraph wires. It was the latter circumstance that was most troublesome, since it made it impossible to get any definite information.

The end of it was, that the passengers had to shift for themselves, and find shelter and occupation as best they could, until they should be able to go on to their destinations: of which passengers only two need be mentioned here, namely, Captain Lopez and the priest. The former, having been thus rudely separated from Katie, had no object in going any farther, and therefore was quite willing to remain in this place. But it soon appeared that he had plenty to do. He at once set forth to communicate with the civil and military authorities, in the hope of obtaining assistance toward rescuing Katie from her captivity; and such was his zeal and energy, that before long he had received the most earnest promises of assistance and co-operation from all to whom he applied. As for the priest aforesaid, he had a different purpose, and that purpose did not lead him to make any effort to procure lodgings. He refreshed himself with a repast at the nearest hosteria, after which, girding up his loins, he left the place by the high-road.

The road at first ran through the plain, where, on every side, there stretched away fields of brown grass, with flocks of sheep and goats. The attendants upon these were nowhere visible, and this lack of human life and action gave to the country an indescribable air of solitude and desertion. In other respects, however, there was everything which could gratify the eye and the taste. The land was fertile, the soil cultivated, the scenery beautiful. Tall trees—the mulberry and the poplar—arose in long lines; here and there the cactus stretched forth its thorny arms, and at intervals there appeared the dark green of extensive olive-groves. Behind the traveller there extended a wall of purple hills, and before him arose the giant heights of the Pyrenees. Among these last the road at length entered, and, winding along at the base of sloping hills, it ascended very gradually.

The priest walked onward at a long, slinging pace, which told of the experienced pedestrian. For three hours he kept this up, being too intent upon his progress, and upon his own thoughts, to pay much attention to the scenery, except so far as was needed for purposes of precaution. Save for this, the external form of nature and the many beauties around him were disregarded; and at length, after three hours, he sat down to rest at a rock by the wayside. Sitting here, he drew forth from his pocket a well-used pipe, which he filled and lighted; after which he sat smoking, and surveying, in a contemplative manner, the scene before him.

It was, in truth, a scene well worthy of contemplation. For many a mile the eye of the beholder could rove over the course of the Ebro, and take in the prospect of one of the fairest lands in all the world. He had advanced high enough to overlook the valley, which lay behind him, with lines of hills in the distance, while in front arose the mountains dark in the heavy shade. To the west the country spread away until, in the far distance, it ended in a realm of glory. For here the sun was sinking into a wide basin formed by a break in the lines of mountains, filling it all with fire and splendor; and while the hollow between the hills was thus filled with flame, immediately above this there were piled up vast masses of heavy strata clouds, of fantastic shapes and intense blackness. Above these the sky grew clearer, but was still overlaid with thin streaks of cirrus clouds, which were tinted with every hue of the rainbow, and spread over all the western heavens up to the zenith and beyond.

In that low mass of strata clouds which overhung the sunset there was now a wild convulsion. A storm was raging there, too far away to be felt, but plainly visible. The fantastic shapes were flung together in furious disorder; through the confused masses electric flashes shot forth; sometimes in floods of glory, sometimes in straight lines of forked lightning, sometimes in rounded lumps of suddenly revealed fire—the true bolts of Jove. Toward the south the hills lay wrapped in haze and gloom, and in one part there was a heavy shower, where the rain streamed down in vertical lines.

The sun went down, leaving behind it a redder splendor by which all was glorified; the river wound in molten gold; the trees were tipped with purple lustre; the crests of the mountains took on aureoles of light. As the sun still descended, the scene was slowly transformed; the splendor lessened; the clouds broke up into other forms; the thick strata mass dissipated itself; then came a golden haze over the wide west; the moon revealed itself over the head of Scorpio, with Antares beaming from a bright place in the sky.

The scenes shifted rapidly, and twilight deepened, until the clouds made way for the moon, and, breaking up into thin light masses, swept away over the sky; while the moon, assuming its proper functions, looked mildly down, and bathed all the valley in a mellow lustre.

After about half an hour's rest, the priest arose, put his pipe in his pocket, and resumed his long stride. Up the road he went, without stopping again, as though he had resolved to cross the Pyrenees in that one night, and be over in France by morning: of whom it might be said, in the words of the Chinese poet,

"That young man walkee no can stop."

Another hour brought him a good four miles farther on, and still he kept up the same pace. He now reached a place where the road took a somewhat sudden turn, and wound around a rocky projection on the lull-side. Here, as he turned, he came full upon a figure that was walking in the opposite direction.

It was the figure of a woman; and in that bright moonshine it was easy to see that she was young, and graceful, and light, and elastic. Coming suddenly upon the priest as she did, at the turn in the road, she was evidently quite terrified. Her attitude was that of a stealthy fugitive; and as she met him there was, in her sudden involuntary gesture, the appearance of one who has been captured by a pursuer. For an instant she recoiled in an agony of terror, but then one glance at the costume of the priest seemed to reassure her; and then, clasping her hands, she came nearer, and said, in tremulous tones:

"Padre! padre! per l'amor de Dios soccorre me!"

The priest looked at her for a few moments in silence. Then he spoke.

"Étez vous Française, mademoiselle?"

The woman shook her head.

"E ella Italiana?"

Again she shook her head.

"Sind sie Deutsch?"

Another shake of the head, and then she said:

"Yo soy Inglesa."

The priest gave a long whistle.

"English!" he cried; "English! Then in future please be kind enough to speak English, for your Spanish—is—well, declined, with thanks."

At these words the woman started, and then, with an uncontrollable impulse, seized the hand of the priest in a convulsive grasp.

"Oh!" she cried, "are you really—really an Englishman? Oh, thank Heaven! thank Heaven! Then you will help me!"

"English?" said the priest; "well, for the matter of that, I'm anything you please just now, in this infernal country. I certainly do speak English, but at the same time I prefer calling myself what I am—namely, an American."

This loquacity of the priest made no impression upon the woman, who was absorbed now by her one idea of escape, of obtaining help, of flight.

"Oh, sir," she continued, "can you help me? Can I go on by this road? Do you know what I can do? Will you tell me?"

"Oh yes," said the priest, "I'll tell you. I do not know what you can do. What can you do? You can read, perhaps, and I suppose you can play the piano, and crochet; but I know what you cannot do—you cannot speak Spanish."

These words were spoken with the indifferent air of one who is thinking of something else.

"Ah, sir," said the woman, in a tone of anguish, "don't mock at me! I'm in distress unspeakable. I've—I've lost my way."

She could scarcely speak from agitation. The priest was silent for a moment. Then he drew a long breath.

"Lost your way?" said he. "Well, that is queer too. Your way—and what way can that be in times like these, and here in this country, and, above all, in this part of the country? Are you walking for a wager? Are you going round the world in a bee-line? Do you carry a portable canoe?"

"I was in the diligence," said the woman, not choosing to notice such ill-timed levity, "and we were stopped—by the Carlists—and I escaped—and I'm trying to find my way to some safe place—but I cannot—I cannot."

"H'm!" said the priest, "that is a coincidence too—just my own case to a T. I've been captured by the Carlists too, and I've escaped, and I'm now making a bolt for a place of safety. Well, this does beat my grandmother, I must say!"

The lady was too full of her own troubles to notice the peculiar expressions of the priest. She merely continued, as before, to beg for help.

"Oh, sir," said she, "do you know the way here? and can you help me?"

"Well," said the priest, "I know some of it, I may say, but that depends on what you mean by knowing it. But will you allow me to ask you one or two questions? In the first place, where did you come from last?"

"Last?" said the lady; "the last place I came from was Barcelona."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"You spoke of a diligence. You must have come from Barcelona by train."

"Of course."

"Then that must have been the train that stopped over there."

"Yes; the train stopped. I understood that it was not going on any farther for a long time, for that the track was torn up. A diligence was prepared for those passengers who were anxious to go on immediately, and I was most eager to proceed without delay, so as to get to my home as soon as possible. So, early this morning, we left, and came, without any incident of any kind until we reached a place about five miles away. There we were stopped and robbed. I believe all the passengers were detained and held as prisoners—at least I myself was. I was handed over to the care of a peasant woman, who took me to a cottage. About two hours ago she came to me and told me that I might go, and urged me to fly at once. I could not understand her very well, for I know very little Spanish indeed, but I could see that she was sorry for me, and offered me this chance of escape. It was also quite evident that she considered me in great danger, and was frightened about me. I felt deeply grateful, and offered her a gold locket which had escaped the notice of the robbers, but she refused it. So then I started off. I've come along the road ever since, and have seen no one except yourself. And now, sir," continued the lady, looking at the priest with intense earnestness, "can you help me? Will you? Oh, for the love of—"

Here the priest interrupted her. The lady had spoken in a low voice, which had a very mournful cadence, and besides this there were signs of deep emotion in the tremulous tones and the agitated manner. Her flight had been a long and a hurried one; the exertion had been severe; her strength had been put forth to the utmost; she was on the verge of utter exhaustion. Everything in her appearance, voice, and manner combined to inspire pity and sympathy. The good priest had seemed not unmoved as she was speaking, and now he interrupted her, raising his hand, and speaking in a very gentle voice.

"Ah, now," said he, "come—none of that! Do you think me a savage, that you must pray to me for mercy? Help you!" he repeated, in stronger tones. "Ay, madame, that will I, and with the last drop of my heart's-blood and to my life's end. There, is that strong enough? Help you!"—and he gave a short laugh—"that's good, too! Why, what else have I been thinking of ever since I met you? What else can you suppose that I intend to do? Isn't it enough for me to see your distress? But come—it isn't quite so safe as it might be, and enemies may be lurking near. We must first find a place of retirement, where we can decide on what is best to be done."

The tones of the priest's voice were now totally different from those which he had employed hitherto. These were harsh, dry, indifferent, almost mocking; but now they were full of sincere feeling and unmistakable truth. Their effect upon the lady was very marked and strong. She clasped her hands, bowed her head, and in her weakness was unable to bear up under this new revulsion of feeling; so she burst into tears and stood there weeping.

At this the priest was not a little embarrassed. For a moment he seemed about to try to soothe her; but be checked this impulse, and looked away, whistling softly to himself. After a few moments he went on, speaking in a gentle voice:

"I've been going along alone easily enough, but now, if you will come with me, I shall have to make some changes in my plans. You see, two cannot travel so easily as one; and then you are a lady, and an English lady too, which in these parts means a wealthy foreigner—an object of plunder. You, as an English lady, run an amount of risk to which I, as a Spanish priest, am not at all exposed. So you see we can no longer remain in so public a place as this high-road. We must seek some secure place, at least for the present. You don't seem able to go much farther. This moonlight night is just the time for flight, but you need rest now, and unless you get that first you won't be able to escape at all. And so—what do you say to my hunting up a hiding-place for the night?"

As the priest began to speak, the lady had made a violent effort to recover herself and had succeeded well enough to listen attentively, only showing by an occasional sigh or sob that her distress had not yet passed away altogether. At the priest's question she paused thoughtfully for a short time, and then said,

"My being with you will make a great difference to you?"

"Oh yes," said the priest.

"It will perhaps endanger your safety," continued the lady, anxiously.

"Oh, that is nothing," said the priest; "that is my normal state. I am always in danger."

"Still, I should be sorry to add to your danger," she said, hesitatingly; "and if—if—"

"Well," said the priest, sharply, "if what?"

"If I am a source of danger," said the lady, calmly, "I should prefer going on alone, just as I was; and I shall only ask you to tell me what is the nearest town, and to give me generally the direction to it."

"Oh, you will, will you?" said the priest, in the mocking tone which he had previously used. "Well, then, madame, I shall only ask you to do as I say, and ask no questions. I know the country—you don't. I have registered a vow in heaven to save you, and save you I will, even in spite of all your teeth. I swear it in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!"

At these strange words the lady was silent for a few moments, and then said, in a tremulous voice,

"I'll do anything that you wish me to do."

"Furthermore, my hearer," continued the priest, suddenly assuming and immediately dropping the whine of a rustic preacher, "mark this—I don't mind saying a few words to ease your scruples: you cannot make my position any more dangerous than it is already. I carry my life in my hand all the time."

"Still," said the lady, "you can easily take care of yourself; but what a terrible thing it would be if you should get into trouble on my account!"

"Well, I'll ask only one question—what is your calling in life?"

"I have no calling. I'm a lady—"

"Spinster?" said the priest, in a mild voice.

"Yes," said the lady, gravely, and with deep sadness. It seemed to the priest that he had unwittingly touched upon a tender point.

"Pardon me," said he, "this is all I wish to get at. You are not a politician, not a political agent, not a spy?"

"Certainly not."

"Nor a newspaper correspondent?"

"No."

"Not even an artist?"

"No; nothing but a simple English lady, and only anxious to get back home."

"Very well—very good!" said the priest, approvingly. "And you shall go home, too; but remember what I said, and trust in me. And now let us see what we had better do. I've been here before, all through and through this country, and know it like a book. Now just over there, a little to the west, there is an old unoccupied castle, which is in very good condition, considering that it's a thousand years old. It is just the place for us. Unfortunately, there may be others in it, for it is held from time to time by the one or the other of the fighting factions; yet, even in that case I know of an odd corner or two where we can elude observation for the present; for it is a very—a monstrously large castle, and I happen to know the ins and outs of it pretty well. I can assure you a good night's rest there."

"It is not inhabited, you say."

"No, not as a general thing."

"I'm sorry for that. If it were, the people would perhaps give us shelter and food, and help us on our way."

"The people would perhaps give us more shelter than we might care for. But come—we ought to be off, for you need rest, and that soon."

The lady said nothing, but walked along with the priest. For about a quarter of a mile they followed the road, and then turned away to the left over the country. Here their pathway lay over the flank of the mountain, and traversed open fields which were used for pasture. The moon shone brightly, illuminating the scene, and the priest walked with the assured air of one who knew his way thoroughly.

The lady, who all along had seemed much fatigued, now began to give more evident signs of distress. The priest made her take his arm: she did so, and for a time was relieved. He sought to cheer her with encouraging words. She responded nobly, and certainly made all the effort in her power; but her strength had that day been too sorely tasked, and threatened to fail her utterly. At last she sank to the ground, and sat there, while the priest waited patiently.

"Courage!" said he. "Cheer up! We shall soon be there now."

After a short rest the lady recovered a little, and made a final effort. They walked on as before, the lady holding the priest's arm, and moving forward by dint of desperate exertions. So they went until at last there appeared immediately ahead a massive tower, which seemed to arise from behind some trees.

"There it is," said the priest. "One more effort."

But the lady could go no farther. She sank down on the ground once more, with something like a groan.

"I can go no farther," said she, in a faint voice.

The priest made no reply, but stood for some time in silence watching her. It was evident that he hoped for another rally of her powers, but he was disappointed; for the lady sat with her head bowed down, trembling, weeping, and all unnerved. Time passed, and there was no revival of strength.

"Madame!" said the priest at length, in a harsh and constrained voice.

At this the lady gave a sigh, and tried to raise herself, but without success. After a useless effort she sank down again.

"Madame," said the priest, "to stay here is out of the question. We have not much farther to go; the place of our destination is not far off, and I am going to carry you there."

"No," said the lady, "you must not. I—I—"

"Madame," interrupted the other, "as a priest it is my duty to succor the distressed, and even as a man I should feel bound to save you."

"It's too much for you," said the lady, faintly. "Save yourself. It's no matter—what—becomes of—of me."

"Oh, it isn't, isn't it?" said the priest, in his dryest manner. "Well, you will please remember that you and I are in the same boat, and we must win or lose together. And so, as I don't intend to be captured yet awhile, why, madame, with your permission, and begging your pardon, I'll take the liberty of saving you in my own way. At the same time, please remember that it's not for your sake I'm doing this so much as for my own."

What possible meaning there might be to these last words the priest did not explain, nor did the lady understand. In fact, there was no time for explanation. The priest, without any more ado, raised the lady in his arms and marched off with her.

He was not a very large man, but he was very muscular, and in excellent training; so he trudged on at a pace which, under all the circumstances, was really wonderful. Fortunately he did not have very far to carry his burden. Before long he came to a grove of large trees, which stood wide apart and admitted of an easy passage. Traversing this, he at length reached a low tower, which was in a half-ruinous condition. It stood upon the brink of a deep chasm, the sides of which were densely wooded, while at the bottom there was a brawling brook. Upon the other side of the chasm appeared the outline of a stately castle, with walls and towers and battlements and keep, all plainly discernible as they rose up in giant proportions.

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CHAPTER IX. — IN WHICH THE PRIEST SEES A VISION, AND GOES IN SEARCH OF A BREAKFAST.

The priest placed the lady on the ground near the trunk of a fallen tree, against which she might lean, and then, turning away, he drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, and began cutting armfuls of brushwood and twigs of shrubs. These he canned into the tower and spread over the floor with the skill of a practised hand, while the lady sat where he had left her, with her head bowed down, taking no notice of anything, and seeming like one who was quite prostrated in mind as well as in body. When at last the priest's task was ended, he went to her and carried her inside the tower.

"Here," said he, "is some brushwood. I'm sorry that there isn't anything better, but better is a stone couch with liberty than a bed of down with captivity. Don't be worried or frightened. If there is any danger, I'll sound the alarm in Zion and get you off in time."

The lady murmured some inarticulate words, and the priest then left her and went outside. He there spent some little time in gathering some brush for himself, which he spread upon the grass, under the castle wall; after which, he seated himself upon it, and pulling out his pipe, he filled it and began to smoke.

Hitherto he had been too much preoccupied to pay any very close attention to the world around; but now, as he sat there, he became aware of sounds which arose apparently from the interior of the great castle on the other side of the chasm. The sounds did not startle him in the least, however, and he was evidently prepared for something of this sort. Between this tower and the great castle there intervened the deep chasm; and though no doubt the two structures had once been connected, yet all connection had long since been destroyed, and now there was no visible way of passing from the one to the other. The priest, therefore, felt as secure as though he were miles away, and listened serenely to the noises.

There came to his ears sounds of singing, and laughter, and revelry, with shouts and cries that rang out upon the air of night. There seemed to be no small stir in the castle, as though a multitude had gathered there, and had given themselves up securely to general merriment. But all this troubled not the priest one whit, for he calmly finished his pipe, and then, laying it down, he disposed his limbs in a comfortable position, still keeping a sitting posture, and in this attitude he fell asleep and slept the sleep of the just.

Very early on the following morning our good priest opened his eyes, and the first object that they rested upon was the lady, who stood there full before him, and greeted him with a gentle smile.

The priest had not seen her very well on the previous evening, and now as he saw her face in full daylight, it seemed different from that which had met his view under the moonbeams. The lady was of slender form, a trifle over the middle height, and of marked dignity of bearing. Her face was perfectly beautiful in the outline of its features, but this was as nothing when compared with the refined and exquisite grace, the perfect breeding, the quick intelligence, and the womanly tenderness that were all expressed in those noble lineaments. It was a face full of calm self-possession, and gave indications of a great and gracious nature, which could be at once loving and brave, and tender and true. Her hair, which was very luxuriant, was closely bound up in dark auburn masses; her lips were full of sweet sensitiveness; and thus she stood looking at him with dark hazel eyes that seemed to glow with feeling and intelligence, till the good priest thought that never in all his life had he seen anything half so fair. In fact, so overcome was he that he sat staring at her for some time without one word, and without giving any response whatever to the pleasant words of greeting which she spoke.

"I'm very sorry indeed," said she, as the priest still stared in silence at her, "that I was such a trouble to you, after all your—your kindness; but the fact is, I was so wretchedly fatigued that I was scarcely responsible for my actions. It was too selfish in me; but now I mean to make amends, and help you in every possible way. Would you like me to do anything? Sha'n't I get breakfast?"

She spoke these words with a smile, in which, however, there was not a little sadness. There was nothing in the words themselves beyond that painful consideration for others and forgetfulness of self which the priest had observed in her the night before; but the voice was a wonderful one—a round, full contralto, yet soft and low, with a certain mysteriously tremulous undertone that fell with a thrill upon his ear.

The priest started up.

"Breakfast!" said he, with a short laugh. "That is the very thing I was thinking of myself. I consider that an all-important subject."

"It is certainly a serious matter," said she.

"And you propose to get it for me?"

"Yes," said she, with a faint smile, "if I can."

"I really wish you would," continued the priest, "for it would save me from a great responsibility; for if you don't get it for me, hang me if I know where I can get any for myself."

"What do you mean?" said she. "Have we nothing to eat?"

"Well, not so bad as that. I have a bit of a sandwich, I believe, and you may have it."

With this he produced from his pocket a tin sandwich case and offered it to her.

She refused.

"If that is the last that you have," said she, "I can wait."

"But you must eat it, so as to get back your strength."

"And what will you do?"

"Oh, I'm an old hand at fasting. It's my business."

"As priest, I suppose?" said the lady, with a smile that was brighter, or rather less mournful, than any which the priest had thus far seen on her melancholy face.

"Yes, as priest," said the other, dryly. "And now will you take it?"

"Do you ever think about yourself?" asked the lady, in a low voice, in which the thrill was more perceptible than usual.

"About myself? Oh yes," said he; "I never think of anything else. My motto is to take care of Number One. It's only for my own sake that I'm anxious for you to eat; but if you won't take it all, why, you'll have to be content with half. You won't refuse to share with me and take half?"

"By no means. I sha'n't object to take the half, if you choose."

"Well," said he, "that's fair; so let's begin our breakfast. Would you mind sitting on that tree over there?"

He led the way to the fallen tree already mentioned, and the two seated themselves. He then opened the tin case and drew forth a few sandwiches. From these they made their frugal repast.

"You must cultivate patience," said the priest, as he ate. "I know exactly what's in your mind. You want to be off. But, according to the proverb, the more haste the less speed. Tell me—would you rather be here or in the hands of the Carlists?"

"Here."

"Well, I'm afraid if we move incautiously we may be seen and captured by the Carlists. So before we start I propose to reconnoitre. Will you remain here?"

"I will do whatever you direct."

"You are very good and sensible."

"Thanks; but where do you propose to go."

"I'm going to visit the castle over there."

"The castle?"

"Yes. It is full of people. That they are Carlists I haven't a doubt. I mean to visit them, and find out how the land lies."

"But the danger is too great, is it not? May they not detain you?"

"I must run the risk of that."

"Was it your intention to go among the Carlists before you met me?"

"Well, not exactly. I was on my way, and that way might have led among them."

"Are you running this risk for my sake?"

"Well, not particularly, although I have an eye to you in this matter. My chief aim is, just now, to get something for dinner, and after that to find out what is the safest direction for us to take."

The lady sat in thoughtful silence for some time.

"I am afraid," said she, "that you are incurring a terrible risk. You are now out of danger; why put yourself into it? Why may we not fly now, or to-night? I can fast for any length of time."

"The danger is," said the priest, "that we may both fall into the hands of the very men we wish to avoid."

"But that is the very thing you are going to do."

"I—Oh, I can go alone anywhere."

"Ah, there it is!" said the lady, bitterly. "It is I who am a drag on you. It is I who am getting you into danger. Yet why not leave me? Tell me where the road is: I will go back alone."

"Oh, well," said the priest, with his usual short laugh, "as for that, we may talk of it again. I'll tell you presently. It may come to that, but I hope not. I am going to that castle all the same. I've been there before, and without harm: I expect to come back. But suppose I do not, how long will you wait here for me?"

"As long as you say."

"Twenty-four hours?"

"Yes."

"Very well. I do not think they will detain me, but it is best to be prepared. And now, by way of preliminary, I will show you how I can go over there. Remember, I have been here before, and have become acquainted with some of the secrets of this place. If you should be in danger, or if I should not come back, you will be able to fly by the way which I will now show you."

The priest arose and entered the tower, followed by the lady. The pavement was of stone: part of it was open, and some ruinous steps led into a cellar. Here they descended, and found themselves in a place which had been excavated from the rock which formed three sides of the place. On the fourth was a wall, in which was a wide gap that looked out upon the chasm. It seemed as though there had once been a bridge at this point leading over to the castle.

"Here," said the priest, "if you look out you cannot imagine any possibility of descent, but if you examine carefully you will perceive a narrow ledge among the shrubbery. Go out on this, and follow it along, and you will find it growing wider as it goes down. It will take you all the way to the bottom of this chasm, and there you will find stepping-stones by which to cross the brook, and on the opposite side a trail like this, which will lead you to the top of the opposite ridge."

"I don't think that I should feel inclined to try it," said the lady; "but I am glad, all the same, that I have a mode of retreat. It makes one feel less desperate."

"Oh, you know, I hope to be back again."

"But what shall I do if you do not return?" said the lady.

"That is what troubles me," said the priest. "To think of you making your escape alone—"

"That is not what I meant," said the lady. "I referred to my own self-reproach. If you do not come back, I shall feel as though your blood is required at my hands."

The priest looked at her and gave his short laugh.

"I shouldn't advise you to come after me to the castle," said he. "Your chief difficulty will be the commissariat. If I do not come back before twenty-four hours, you will then have to fly for yourself. In that case, do not go back to the road you were on before. Do not go to the castle. Take this path and go down to the bottom of the chasm, and up the other side to the top of the ridge. Keep under trees as much as possible. Travel due south. Heaven help you! God bless you! Good-bye!"

He looked at the lady. Her eyes, which were fixed on him, seemed overflowing with feeling; but whether of anxiety for him or fear for herself did not appear.

"You seem to me to be going to death," said she, in a low voice, "and I am the cause!"

"To death!" said the priest, with his usual laugh. "Moriturus te salutat. Pardon!—that's Latin. At any rate, we may as well shake hands over it."

He held out his hand. She caught it in both of hers.

"God protect you!" she murmured, in a low voice, with quivering lips. "I shall be in despair till you come back. I shall never have the courage to fly. If you do not come back, I shall die in this tower."

"Child," said the priest, in a sad, sweet voice, "you are too despondent. I will come back—do not fear. Try and get rid of these gloomy thoughts. And now, once more, good-bye."

He pressed her hand and departed through the gap. He then began his descent, while the lady stood watching him with anxious eyes and despairing face till he had passed out of sight.

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