She bowed her head and I went on. “In those wars I met a man who was named Teule, but who had another name in former days, so he told me on his deathbed some two years ago.”
“What name?” she asked in a low voice.
“Thomas Wingfield.”
Now Lily moaned aloud, and in her turn caught at the pales to save herself from falling.
“I deemed him dead these eighteen years,” she gasped; “drowned in the Indian seas where his vessel foundered.”
“I have heard say that he was shipwrecked in those seas, señora, but he escaped death and fell among the Indians, who made a god of him and gave him the daughter of their king in marriage,” and I paused.
She shivered, then said in a hard voice, “Continue, sir; I listen to you.”
“My friend Teule took the part of the Indians in the wars, as being the husband of one of their princesses he must do in honour, and fought bravely for them for many years. At length the town that he defended was captured, his one remaining child was murdered, his wife the princess slew herself for sorrow, and he himself was taken into captivity, where he languished and died.”
“A sad tale, sir,” she said with a little laugh—a mournful laugh that was half choked by tears.
“A very sad tale, señora, but one which is not finished. While he lay dying, my friend told me that in his early life he had plighted troth with a certain English maid, named—”