"He had a safe asylum provided for him by some friend--I know not whom," said Gonsalvo, in reply. "He was going forth at midnight to seek it. At the same hour I also"--(for a moment he hesitated, but quickly went on)--"was going forth--to plunge a dagger in my enemy's heart. We met face to face; and each confided his errand to the other. He sought, by argument and entreaty, to move me from a purpose which seemed to him a great crime. But ere our debate was ended, God laid his hand in judgment upon me; and whilst Don Carlos lingered, speaking words of comfort--brave and kind, though vain--the Alguazils came, and he was taken."
Juan listened in gloomy silence.
"Did he leave no message, not one word, for me?" he asked at last, in a low voice.
"Yes; one word. Filled with wonder at the calmness with which he met his terrible fate, I cried out, as they led him from the room, 'Vaya con Dios, Don Carlos, a braver man than you have I never seen!' With one long mournful look, that haunts me still, he said, 'Tell Ruy!'"
Strong man as he was, Don Juan Alvarez bowed his head and wept. They were the first tears the great sorrow had wrung from him--almost the first that he ever remembered shedding. Gonsalvo saw no shame in them.
"Weep on," he said--"weep on; and thank God that thy tears are for sorrow only, not for remorse."
Hoarse and heavy sobs shook the strong frame. For some time they were the only sounds that broke the stillness. At length Gonsalvo said, slowly,--
"He gave me something to keep, which in right should belong to thee."
Juan looked up. Gonsalvo half raised himself, and drew a cushion from beneath his head. First he took off its outer cover of fine holland; then he inserted his hand into an opening that seemed like an accidental rip, and, not without some trouble, drew out a small volume. Juan seized it eagerly: well did he know his brother's Spanish Testament.
"Take it," said Gonsalvo; "but remember it is a dangerous treasure."