“Oh, how you frightened me! What is it, la Mancha? You’ve brought a message for me?”
“You thought I was a ghost,” he whispered; “you thought I was—”
“Buck? Yes.” He saw a tear run down her cheek. “Yes, I thought so.”
“I am his messenger.” The Blackguard’s voice was soft and low, he leaned towards her, his hand against the stockade, as he bent down. “His last thought was of you, he tried to give me a message, but his voice failed then.”
“My brother! My poor brother!” The Blackguard started back.
“The deuce!” he stammered, “what a beastly sell! Your brother, madam?” He uncovered his head. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sarde; I beg your forgiveness.”
“Nobody knew,” her voice was broken with tears; “not even my husband. Poor boy—things had gone wrong down East. He had to change his name, and when he joined the Force—for my sake, he wouldn’t say that he was my brother. He was in the ranks, you see, and I—”
“You are in trouble, madam”—a new reverence had come into la Mancha’s manner. “I was your brother’s friend—may I take his place and serve you?”
“How kind of you to think of that, Mr. la Mancha. But then, you see, my husband—you understand?”
“Has the right to protect you; yes, he has that great honor.”