“Elsewhere, then?”
He is silent under this searching inquisition.
“Do you think that danger to your life would be unhappiness to her’s—your death her life’s misery?”
“My dishonour should be more, as it would to myself. It is not vengeance I seek against those who have murdered my men, only to bring them to justice. I must do that, or else proclaim myself a poltroon—I feel myself one—a self-accusation that would give me a life-long remorse. No, Señorita Adela. It is kind of you to take an interest in my safety. I already owe you my life; but I cannot permit you to save it again, at the sacrifice of honour, of duty, of humanity.”
Hamersley fancies himself being coldly judged and counselled with indifference. Could he know the warm, wild admiration struggling in the breast of her who counsels him, he would make rejoinder in different fashion.
Soon after he talks in an altered tone, and with changed understanding. So also does she, hitherto so difficult of comprehension.
“Go!” she cries. “Go and get redress of your wrongs, justice for your fallen comrades; and if you can, the punishment of their assassins. But remember! if it brings death to you, there is one who will not care to live after.”
“Who?” he asks, springing forward, with heart on fire and eyes aflame. “Who?”
He scarce needs to put the question. It is already answered by the emphasis on her last words.
But it is again replied to, this time in a more tranquil tone; the long, dark lashes of the speaker veiling her eyes as she pronounces her own name,—