Sarita, the Carlist

by Arthur W. Marchmont

"For the Holy Mother's sake, save yourself," she cried, in a voice of pain.

"If you will come, yes. If you will not come, no. Where you are, I stay, Sarita."

The old woman and the lad stood staring at us in dismay.

"Come, senor, come," he said.

"We are not going, Juan," I answered, quietly; and Sarita put her hands to her face distractedly, and then she cried again impulsively—

"Oh, you must go. You must go."

"Come, then," and, grasping her hand, I led her toward the door.

"Quick, senor, quick," said the boy again.

"Quick, Sarita," I repeated. "Every moment lost may be fatal."

"I will go. Yes, I will go. Quick, Mother Calvarro, my things;" and, smiling to me with every sign of agitation, she took them from the old woman's hand. "It is for your sake," she whispered, as we hurried out into the passage.