"That may be. At any rate, you are free, and you owe it to her." This reminder of my obligation to Dolores was the first slight rift in his firmness.
"If it were possible, it would influence my attitude. But nothing can do that—nothing, at least, that you can do."
"I knew there was something. What is it? Tell us that, Lord Glisfoyle. I beg and pray of you, say what it is," cried Dolores, in a tone of fervent entreaty.
"It is useless even to name it. It is nothing less than the undoing of all this wilful and unholy persecution of the Carlists—wilful and unholy because undertaken for the sake of furthering, not the welfare of Spain, but your brother's ambition."
"It is not impossible. I am sure it is not," she exclaimed. "You can do anything, Sebastian; while your influence is what it is, you can do anything. Say that this shall be done, and Lord Glisfoyle will leave Spain—I know he will—and give up these documents you fear so much."
They were the mere wild, idle words of a distracted woman, the cry of a true heart torn asunder by the vehemence of emotion.
To my surprise, her brother did not instantly repudiate them, however, but sat with pent, frowning brows in deep thought for a moment.
"Would you go alone?" he asked then, without relaxing the stern, set expression of face.
"Do you mean would anything ever make me consent to see Sarita Castelar your wife?"
"Would you go alone?" he repeated, in the same tone.