"Oh, Talbot, Talbot! don't shrink! Oh, Talbot, don't falter! For my sake, don't let me see you falter, Talbot, or I shall break down. Alone I could let myself be tortured to death by Comanches, and I'd sing my death-song as bravely as Mullins Bryan; but mark this, Talbot: if you break down, if you even falter, I'm a lost, ruined, and dishonored man. Will you remember that, Talbot?"
As he spoke these words, Brooke's voice had a thrill in it that Talbot had never heard before.
"Brooke," said she, "I will be firm. Rather than show any weakness, I will die."
"That's very good," said Brooke. "Your hand on it, Talbot."
She held out her hand. He pressed it with a convulsive grasp.
"You will not forget?" he asked, eagerly.
"I cannot forget," she answered, simply.
"Good lad!" said Brooke. He dropped her hand, and at once resumed his careless manner. "And now," said he, "we can continue our music:
"'For there the historic blacksmith stands—'
Gretna Green, you know—