A Castle in Spain Part 35

"Talbot!" cried Brooke.

"Tell him what I say," was Talbot's calm reply.

"You are mad!" groaned Brooke.

"What is all this?" cried Lopez, angrily. "What does the priest say?"

"The priest says that he will not go," replied Brooke--"that he will stay by me."

"Oh, he does, does he?" said Lopez. "Well, that's all the better for you. You'll need him, especially if you persist in your obstinacy."

Brooke translated this, and Talbot listened without a word.

Brooke was now ordered back into the mill, and he went, Talbot following. On reaching the loft, they both were silent for a long time. Brooke spoke first.

"Oh, Talbot, Talbot!" he cried, in a reproachful voice, "why didn't you go? You had the chance."

"Go!" exclaimed Talbot. "What! go and leave you?"

"Of course," said Brooke.

"What! when you have risked your life, and are in such danger of death, for me? Oh, Brooke, Brooke! Is this, then, your opinion of me?

Can you think me capable of such utter baseness?"

"Talbot," said Brooke, "it was to save your life that I left the tower, and now you will not save yourself."

"Save myself! save my worthless life! I should scorn it if I must leave you to die. Never! never! Now, may G.o.d do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me--that is, till we escape and are out of danger. We must escape together. You shall never lay down your life for me."

Talbot spoke with the air of one whose resolution was immovable.

Brooke's agitation was intense.

"Talbot," he cried, "you are mad. You don't know these men. They are remorseless fiends. They will wreak their vengeance on you as well as on me."

"Let them," said Talbot, firmly.

"I tell you," cried Brooke, in vehement tones, "that I have a duty to perform and a battle to fight. I have to be constant until death to my duty; but if you stay by me--if you remain--if you are still in peril--oh, Talbot! I shall be false to my duty--for your sake."

"No, Brooke," said Talbot, "you will never be false to your duty for my sake. You will be true, and I will stand by you. You shall never see me deserting you. If you have any friendship for me, you will be glad to see your friend by your side in the hour of your trial."

"It's not that--it's not that!" cried Brooke. "Good heavens! you will not understand. Do you not see that if you remain you will soon be alone in the world, and then--who will defend you?"

"I understand well what you mean," said Talbot, firmly. "You expect to die, and do not wish to leave me here alone among these ruffians.

Never fear for me. Heaven will protect me. But you must know this well, and I say it once for all, I will not leave you. I cannot be false or dishonorable. I can die. Yes, Brooke, I can die, for I remember how you told me that I am an English lad. We Talbots have given up our lives in every generation for what we believe to be the good cause; and the last of the Talbots can die gladly rather than desert a friend."

Brooke turned away. A sob burst from him. In vain he tried to restrain it. Then there followed an exceedingly bitter cry.

"Talbot! Talbot! By heaven, you'll break my heart!"

"Oh, Brooke!" cried Talbot, "be calm--oh, be calm! I say to you, as you said to me, be calm _for my sake_; for if you lose your self-control I shall break down utterly."

CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH BROOKE AND TALBOT EXCHANGE CONFIDENCES.

After some time Brooke grew calmer.

"And now," said Talbot, "tell me all that took place between you and this officer, for I have not understood."

Brooke told her all.

"And why can't you do what he asks?" said Talbot in surprise. "Why can't you take them to that castle? You were there, and when there you say you recognized the Carlist chief himself, the very man who stopped the train. He must have the English prisoners there. Do you men to say that you will not help those poor captives?"

"I cannot," said Brooke.

"Cannot?"

"Look here, Talbot! I've thought it over and over, and I cannot.

Honor forbids. Let me explain. You see, while wandering about here, I have frequently fallen into the hands of either party, and have often been in great danger as now, yet I have always escaped. More than this, I have papers from the leading men of both sides, which testify to my character. I am therefore in honor bound never, under any circ.u.mstances, to betray one party to the other, and that, too, no matter what my own feelings may be. I came here as a neutral, a stranger, a correspondent, to get information for the distant American public. That is my business here. But the moment I begin to betray one of these parties to the other in any shape or way, the moment I communicate to others the information which I may have gained in confidence, that moment I become an infernal scoundrel."

"True, Brooke, very true!" said Talbot; "but don't you see how different this thing is? Here is a party of travellers captured by brigands, and held to ransom. You are merely asked to show the way to their prison, so that they may be set free by their friends. What betrayal of confidence is there in this?"

"I say that in any way in which I tell one of these parties about the doings of the other, I betray the confidence which has been placed in me."

"And I say, Brooke, that if you leave these English ladies in the hands of merciless villains to languish in captivity, to suffer torment, and perhaps to die a cruel death, you will be guilty of an unpardonable sin--an offence so foul that it will haunt your last hours!"

"No woman," said Brooke, "can understand a man's sense of honor."

"Sir," said Talbot, with indescribable haughtiness, "you forget my name. Trust me, sir, no Talbot ever lived who failed one jot or t.i.ttle in the extremest demand of honor. I, sir, am a Talbot, and have no need to go to you for information on points of honor. More than this, I say that you are utterly wrong; and that if you leave those English ladies in the hands of these Spanish miscreants you will do foul offence, not only to the honor of a gentleman, but even to the instincts of humanity."

"Forgive me, Talbot," said Brooke, meekly. "I don't mean what you think. When I spoke of a man's sense of honor, I referred to his life of action, with all its conflict of duty and honor, and all those complicated motives of which a woman in her retirement can know nothing."

"Believe me, Brooke," said Talbot, earnestly, "women who are lookers-on are often better and safer judges than men who are in the midst of action. Trust me, and take my advice in this matter. What!

is it possible that you can have the heart to leave these English ladies to a fate of horror among brigands?"

"You put it strongly, Talbot, but that is only a partial view. In brief, you ask me to betray to the enemy a place which I may inform you happens to be one of the cardinal points in the strategy of the Carlist generals. I do not know for certain that the ladies are there; and if they are, I do not believe that they will be badly treated. A ransom will perhaps be exacted, but nothing more. On the whole, I should far rather fall into the hands of the Carlists than the Republicans. The Carlists are generous mountaineers, the peasantry of the North; the Republicans are the communist mobs of the Southern cities. I have seen very much of both sides, and think the Carlists better men every way--more chivalrous, more merciful, and more religious. I am not afraid about those prisoners. I feel convinced that when the general hears of their capture he will set them free himself. At any rate, I cannot interfere. To do so would be a hideous piece of treachery on my part. For me to betray to the Republicans this great and important Carlist fortress, which has become known to me by the favor and the confidence of the Carlist chiefs, would be a thing of horror and dishonor. I would die first, Talbot. So don't say any more. If anything could make me false to my honor and duty, it would be your entreaties. I may be wrong, after all, but I must act by my own sense of right. Would you wish me to save my life, and always afterward have the thought that I had stained my honor?"

"No, Brooke," said Talbot; "and since you feel in this way I will say no more about it."

Silence now followed. Brooke seated himself on the floor with his back against the wall, and Talbot stood looking at him as he thus sat.

This man, who led a life which required some of the qualities of the hero, had nothing particularly heroic in his outward aspect. He was a man of medium size, and sinewy, well-knit frame. He had keen, gray eyes, which noticed everything, and could penetrate to the inner core of things; close-cropped hair, short serviceable beard, of that style which is just now most affected by men of restless energy; a short, straight nose, and a general air of masterful self-restraint and self-possession. Not a handsome man, strictly speaking, was our friend Brooke; not by any means a "lady's man;" but he was something better, inasmuch as he was a manly man, one who would be trusted thoroughly and followed blindly by other men, ay, and by women too; for, after all, it is not the lady's man who is appreciated by true women, but the man's man. To such as these the best sort of women delight to do reverence. Add to this Brooke's abrupt manner, rather harsh voice, inconsequential talk, habit of saying one thing while thinking of something totally different, love of drollery, and dry, short laugh, and then you have Brooke complete, who is here described simply because there has not been any very convenient place for describing him before.

Shortly after the examination of the prisoners, the greater part of the band had gone away with the captain, and only half a dozen men were left behind on guard.