IN WHICH THE PRIEST SEES A VISION, AND GOES IN SEARCH OF A BREAKFAST.
The priest placed the lady on the ground near the trunk of a fallen
tree, against which she might lean, and then, turning away, he drew a
clasp-knife from his pocket, and began cutting armfuls of brushwood
and twigs of shrubs. These he canned into the tower and spread over
the floor with the skill of a practised hand, while the lady sat
where he had left her, with her head bowed down, taking no notice of
anything, and seeming like one who was quite prostrated in mind as
well as in body. When at last the priest's task was ended, he went to
her and carried her inside the tower.
"Here," said he, "is some brushwood. I'm sorry that there isn't
anything better, but better is a stone couch with liberty than a bed
of down with captivity. Don't be worried or frightened. If there is
any danger, I'll sound the alarm in Zion and get you off in time."
The lady murmured some inarticulate words, and the priest then left
her and went outside. He there spent some little time in gathering
some brush for himself, which he spread upon the grass, under the
castle wall; after which, he seated himself upon it, and pulling out
his pipe, he filled it and began to smoke.
Hitherto he had been too much preoccupied to pay any very close
attention to the world around; but now, as he sat there, he became
aware of sounds which arose apparently from the interior of the great
castle on the other side of the chasm. The sounds did not startle him
in the least, however, and he was evidently prepared for something of
this sort. Between this tower and the great castle there intervened
the deep chasm; and though no doubt the two structures had once been
connected, yet all connection had long since been destroyed, and now
there was no visible way of passing from the one to the other. The
priest, therefore, felt as secure as though he were miles away, and
listened serenely to the noises.
There came to his ears sounds of singing, and laughter, and revelry,
with shouts and cries that rang out upon the air of night. There
seemed to be no small stir in the castle, as though a multitude had
gathered there, and had given themselves up securely to general
merriment. But all this troubled not the priest one whit, for he
calmly finished his pipe, and then, laying it down, he disposed his
limbs in a comfortable position, still keeping a sitting posture, and
in this attitude he fell asleep and slept the sleep of the just.
Very early on the following morning our good priest opened his eyes,
and the first object that they rested upon was the lady, who stood
there full before him, and greeted him with a gentle smile.
The priest had not seen her very well on the previous evening, and
now as he saw her face in full daylight, it seemed different from
that which had met his view under the moonbeams. The lady was of
slender form, a trifle over the middle height, and of marked dignity
of bearing. Her face was perfectly beautiful in the outline of its
features, but this was as nothing when compared with the refined and
exquisite grace, the perfect breeding, the quick intelligence, and
the womanly tenderness that were all expressed in those noble
lineaments. It was a face full of calm self-possession, and gave
indications of a great and gracious nature, which could be at once
loving and brave, and tender and true. Her hair, which was very
luxuriant, was closely bound up in dark auburn masses; her lips were
full of sweet sensitiveness; and thus she stood looking at him with
dark hazel eyes that seemed to glow with feeling and intelligence,
till the good priest thought that never in all his life had he seen
anything half so fair. In fact, so overcome was he that he sat
staring at her for some time without one word, and without giving any
response whatever to the pleasant words of greeting which she spoke.
"I'm very sorry indeed," said she, as the priest still stared in
silence at her, "that I was such a trouble to you, after all
your--your kindness; but the fact is, I was so wretchedly fatigued
that I was scarcely responsible for my actions. It was too selfish in
me; but now I mean to make amends, and help you in every possible
way. Would you like me to do anything? Sha'n't I get breakfast?"
She spoke these words with a smile, in which, however, there was not
a little sadness. There was nothing in the words themselves beyond
that painful consideration for others and forgetfulness of self which
the priest had observed in her the night before; but the voice was a
wonderful one--a round, full contralto, yet soft and low, with a
certain mysteriously tremulous undertone that fell with a thrill upon
his ear.
The priest started up.
"Breakfast!" said he, with a short laugh. "That is the very thing I
was thinking of myself. I consider that an all-important subject."
"It is certainly a serious matter," said she.
"And you propose to get it for me?"
"Yes," said she, with a faint smile, "if I can."
"I really wish you would," continued the priest, "for it would save
me from a great responsibility; for if you don't get it for me, hang
me if I know where I can get any for myself."
"What do you mean?" said she. "Have we nothing to eat?"
"Well, not so bad as that. I have a bit of a sandwich, I believe, and
you may have it."
With this he produced from his pocket a tin sandwich case and offered
it to her.
She refused.
"If that is the last that you have," said she, "I can wait."
"But you must eat it, so as to get back your strength."
[Illustration: "The Priest Placed The Lady On The Ground Near The
Trunk Of A Fallen Tree."]
"And what will you do?"
"Oh, I'm an old hand at fasting. It's my business."
"As priest, I suppose?" said the lady, with a smile that was
brighter, or rather less mournful, than any which the priest had thus
far seen on her melancholy face.
"Yes, as priest," said the other, dryly. "And now will you take it?"
"Do you ever think about yourself?" asked the lady, in a low voice,
in which the thrill was more perceptible than usual.
"About myself? Oh yes," said he; "I never think of anything else. My
motto is to take care of Number One. It's only for my own sake that
I'm anxious for you to eat; but if you won't take it all, why, you'll
have to be content with half. You won't refuse to share with me and
take half?"
"By no means. I sha'n't object to take the half, if you choose."
"Well," said he, "that's fair; so let's begin our breakfast. Would
you mind sitting on that tree over there?"
He led the way to the fallen tree already mentioned, and the two
seated themselves. He then opened the tin case and drew forth a few
sandwiches. From these they made their frugal repast.
"You must cultivate patience," said the priest, as he ate. "I know
exactly what's in your mind. You want to be off. But, according to
the proverb, the more haste the less speed. Tell me--would you rather
be here or in the hands of the Carlists?"
"Here."
"Well, I'm afraid if we move incautiously we may be seen and captured
by the Carlists. So before we start I propose to reconnoitre. Will
you remain here?"
"I will do whatever you direct."
"You are very good and sensible."
"Thanks; but where do you propose to go."
"I'm going to visit the castle over there."
"The castle?"
"Yes. It is full of people. That they are Carlists I haven't a doubt.
I mean to visit them, and find out how the land lies."
"But the danger is too great, is it not? May they not detain you?"
"I must run the risk of that."
"Was it your intention to go among the Carlists before you met me?"
"Well, not exactly. I was on my way, and that way might have led
among them."
"Are you running this risk for my sake?"
"Well, not particularly, although I have an eye to you in this
matter. My chief aim is, just now, to get something for dinner, and
after that to find out what is the safest direction for us to take."
The lady sat in thoughtful silence for some time.
"I am afraid," said she, "that you are incurring a terrible risk. You
are now out of danger; why put yourself into it? Why may we not fly
now, or to-night? I can fast for any length of time."
"The danger is," said the priest, "that we may both fall into the
hands of the very men we wish to avoid."
"But that is the very thing you are going to do."
"I--Oh, I can go alone anywhere."
"Ah, there it is!" said the lady, bitterly. "It is I who am a drag on
you. It is I who am getting you into danger. Yet why not leave me?
Tell me where the road is: I will go back alone."
"Oh, well," said the priest, with his usual short laugh, "as for
that, we may talk of it again. I'll tell you presently. It may come
to that, but I hope not. I am going to that castle all the same. I've
been there before, and without harm: I expect to come back. But
suppose I do not, how long will you wait here for me?"
"As long as you say."
"Twenty-four hours?"
"Yes."
"Very well. I do not think they will detain me, but it is best to be
prepared. And now, by way of preliminary, I will show you how I can
go over there. Remember, I have been here before, and have become
acquainted with some of the secrets of this place. If you should be
in danger, or if I should not come back, you will be able to fly by
the way which I will now show you."
The priest arose and entered the tower, followed by the lady. The
pavement was of stone: part of it was open, and some ruinous steps
led into a cellar. Here they descended, and found themselves in a
place which had been excavated from the rock which formed three sides
of the place. On the fourth was a wall, in which was a wide gap that
looked out upon the chasm. It seemed as though there had once been a
bridge at this point leading over to the castle.
"Here," said the priest, "if you look out you cannot imagine any
possibility of descent, but if you examine carefully you will
perceive a narrow ledge among the shrubbery. Go out on this, and
follow it along, and you will find it growing wider as it goes down.
It will take you all the way to the bottom of this chasm, and there
you will find stepping-stones by which to cross the brook, and on the
opposite side a trail like this, which will lead you to the top of
the opposite ridge."
"I don't think that I should feel inclined to try it," said the lady;
"but I am glad, all the same, that I have a mode of retreat. It makes
one feel less desperate."
"Oh, you know, I hope to be back again."
"But what shall I do if you do not return?" said the lady.
"That is what troubles me," said the priest. "To think of you making
your escape alone--"
"That is not what I meant," said the lady. "I referred to my own
self-reproach. If you do not come back, I shall feel as though your
blood is required at my hands."
The priest looked at her and gave his short laugh.
"I shouldn't advise you to come after me to the castle," said he.
"Your chief difficulty will be the commissariat. If I do not come
back before twenty-four hours, you will then have to fly for
yourself. In that case, do not go back to the road you were on
before. Do not go to the castle. Take this path and go down to the
bottom of the chasm, and up the other side to the top of the ridge.
Keep under trees as much as possible. Travel due south. Heaven help
you! God bless you! Good-bye!"
He looked at the lady. Her eyes, which were fixed on him, seemed
overflowing with feeling; but whether of anxiety for him or fear for
herself did not appear.
"You seem to me to be going to death," said she, in a low voice, "and
I am the cause!"
"To death!" said the priest, with his usual laugh. "_Moriturus te
salutat_. Pardon!--that's Latin. At any rate, we may as well shake
hands over it."
He held out his hand. She caught it in both of hers.
"God protect you!" she murmured, in a low voice, with quivering lips.
"I shall be in despair till you come back. I shall never have the
courage to fly. If you do not come back, I shall die in this tower."
"Child," said the priest, in a sad, sweet voice, "you are too
despondent. I will come back--do not fear. Try and get rid of these
gloomy thoughts. And now, once more, good-bye."
He pressed her hand and departed through the gap. He then began his
descent, while the lady stood watching him with anxious eyes and
despairing face till he had passed out of sight.