"I am an old dragoon," he said, "and under the guidons of El Gran' Lor' I have seen the like. It is none of my business, of course, but all the same it is a pity. I should be happier to leave you watching the slumbers of the Princess!"
"Ah!" cried Concha, earnestly, "if you are indeed an old soldier, and a good one under guidon or holy cross—for this time let me be one also!"
"You are young—I pray you, think!" urged the Basque. "There is great danger! Look at that maid yonder, and what she hath brought on herself."
"Ah," said Concha, softly—so softly indeed as to be almost inaudible, "but the difference is that she did this thing for hate—while—I—I——"
She did not finish her sentence, but raising her eyes, wet with seldom-coming tears, to those of the stern-faced brother, she said instead, "Give me the dress and let us be gone. The sun is rising!"
"If you are indeed determined, you shall have that of Brother Domingo," said Teodoro; "he was of little more than your height, and died, not of the plague, but simply from doing his duty."
"Then let me die in no other way!" said Concha, putting it on as happily as another maiden might dress for a ball.
These three went out to their terrible task, and as they were harnessing the bullock cart once more and spreading a clean cloth over it, Rollo, moved in his heart of hearts, came near. Never did two such lovers as they meet more strangely arrayed. Yet he laid his black gauntlet across her arm and whispered a word which Brother Teodoro did not hear, being, as he took good care to be, much busied about the straps and harnessings.
"I do not think that Love will let us die—yet!" he said.
"That is a prayer. Amen!" said Concha, in a whisper, lifting her eyes to his.