"Not 'Mrs.'" said the lady, again smiling; "Miss Talbot. My full name is Sydney Talbot."
"Sydney Talbot," repeated the priest. "Thanks. That's all. Everything else is told. I may add, however, in an incidental way, that my name is Brooke."
"Father Brooke?" said the lady, interrogatively, with a furtive smile which was perhaps occasioned by the incongruity between the priest's sacred garb and somewhat eccentric manner.
To this question the reply was not particularly appropriate. The priest, or Brooke, as he may now be called, looked with a smile of quiet drollery at Miss Talbot, and then, in a strange whining voice, began to drone out some verses of a song:
"Old Bluebeard was a warrior bold,
He kept his wives in a great stronghold.
One—Two—Three—Four—Five—Six—Seven—
They all of them died and went to Heaven.
Old B. fell into a dismal state,
And went and married Number Eight."
"Well," he resumed, in his natural voice, "Father Brooke isn't bad; Brother Brooke, however, would be better; but, on the whole, simple 'Brooke' is the best of all."
"Well, now, Mr. Brooke," asked the lady, anxiously, "what are our prospects? Have you found out anything?"
"Oh yes; I've had a conversation with an amiable Carlist who was on the point of blowing my brains out, and was only prevented by the unparalleled 'cheek' of the unworthy being who now addresses you."
"Did you really incur such danger?" asked Miss Talbot, in unfeigned anxiety.
"Danger? Oh, a trifle; but a miss is as good as a mile. I'm here now, safe and sound, but for two or three seconds you ran a great risk of making your journey alone. However, I made friends with them, and was entertained royally. Now, as to escape. I'm sorry to say that the country is swarming everywhere with these noble Carlists; that there is no such thing as law; that there are no magistrates, no police, no post-office, no telegraph, no railway trains, no newspapers, and no taxes except of an irregular kind."