"But, alas! my good friend, she is poor, very poor. The house in Saragossa is destroyed, burned during the siege. The house at Morata is pillaged by brigands. There is no rent from the estate; the people are all dispersed; and the good aunt is dead. The worthy porter and his wife have scarcely enough to keep themselves. It is terrible, this war; would that all good Spaniards thought with me that it is best to make peace with the king!"
The speaker bent forward, intently watching the effect of these words. As he had expected, a look of keen distress crossed the prisoner's face. Again he strove to rise, as if by raising himself he could shake off his intolerable weakness. He was suffering acutely. The visitor was silent for a while, giving the imagination of the sick man full play. Then he continued:
"I, alas! can do little to help. I am poor, my good José, miserably poor. I have sacrificed all—you will know how. I would willingly share my last crust with the señorita, but in this fatal war so many things may happen. I begged her to take shelter in a convent, but she would not; brave girl, she would stay to help her people! 'José,' she said, 'could assist us if only he were free. He alone knows what my poor father has done to provide for me. Go to him, Miguel; tell him of our distress; he will find a means of helping us.'"
"What would you wish me to do?"
The visitor, bending low, caught the whispered words. The man's clear eyes were upon him, and he checked the involuntary expression of satisfaction that crossed his face. But, instantaneous though it was, the sick man, strangely sensitive to shades of tone and manner, seemed to be instinctively aware of it, and the other was clearly ill at ease under his searching gaze.
"Well, my good José," he said hesitatingly, "your illness places us in a difficulty. I have here an order for your release" (he drew from his pocket a blue paper which might or might not be what he described); "I hoped that we should have been able to return to Spain together. You could have then placed the señorita beyond the reach of want; for from what she told me it is clear that your master left a large sum in your charge. But, alas! you are not at present able to travel. The best plan that I can think of is that you send the señorita instructions where she can find her property—you can either write her a letter or give me the message,—and I will see that you are released and nursed back to health. You can return to Spain when you are fit to travel."
The sick man feebly shook his head, whispering:
"I must not tell—anything. I swore it."
"Yes, you swore it, and you have kept your oath. But it was never Don Fernan's wish that the señorita should be allowed to—to starve while her fortune remained hidden. It is your duty to be guided by circumstances—by common sense."
The other winced, but still replied: "I cannot; I swore it. Not till the war is over."