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
circumstances, 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
tittle 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.
After Brooke had grown tired of his own meditations, he wandered
toward the window and looked out. Here he stood watching the men
below, and studying their faces until he had formed his own
conclusion as to the character of each one.
"I'm trying," said he to Talbot, who came near, "to find out which
one of these fellows is the most susceptible of bribery and
corruption. They're all a hard lot; the trouble is that one watches
the other so closely that I can't get a fair chance."
"I wonder where the others have gone," said Talbot.
"Oh, they've gone off to search for the prisoners, of course," said
Brooke. "I don't believe they'll find anything about them on this
road; and as for the castle, they'll be unable to do anything there
unless they take cannon."
At length the opportunity arrived for which Brooke had been waiting.
The guards had wandered off to a little distance, and only one man
was left. He was just below at the door of the mill. Brooke was glad
to see that he was the ugliest of the lot, and the very one whom he
had mentally decided upon as being the most corruptible.
Upon this man he began to try his arts.
"Good-morning, senor," said he, insinuatingly.
The man looked up in a surly way, and growled back something.
"Do you smoke?" asked Brooke.
The man grinned.
Upon this Brooke flung down a small piece of tobacco, and then began
to address himself to further conversation. But alas for his hopes!
He had just begun to ask where the others had gone and where the man
belonged, when a flash burst forth, and a rifle ball sung past him
through the window just above his head. It was one of the other
ruffians who had done this, who at the same time advanced, and with
an oath ordered Brooke to hold no communication with the men.
"I may stand at the window and look out, I suppose?" said Brooke,
coolly.
"We have orders to allow no communication with the prisoners
whatever. If you speak another word you'll get a bullet through you."
Upon this Brooke concluded that his plan was a failure.
Evening came at length, and the darkness deepened. The band were
still absent. The men below were perfectly quiet, and seemed to be
asleep.
"I have a proposal to make," said Talbot, "which is worth something
if you will only do it."
"What is that?"
"I have been thinking about it all day. It is this: Take this
priest's dress again, and go. The priest, you know, is not a
prisoner. He stays voluntarily. He has leave to go whenever he
wishes. Now, you are the real priest, I am not. I am wearing your
dress. Take it back, and go."
Brooke looked at her for a few moments in silence. It was too dark
for her to see the look that he gave her.
At length, with his usual short laugh, he said,
"Well, that's a refreshing sort of a proposal to make, too, after all
that has passed between us!"
"Why not?" asked Talbot. "What objection is there to it?"
"Such a question," said Brooke, "does not deserve an answer."
"My plan is feasible enough, and quite safe too."
"Nonsense! And what, pray, is to become of you?"
"Never mind that. Think of yourself, Brooke, for once in your life.
To stay here is certain death for you. This is your very last
chance."
Brooke was silent for a little time.
"Well," said Talbot, "will you go?"
"Oh, Talbot! Talbot!" cried Brooke; "how can you have the heart to
make such a proposal to me? I have told you that the only thing that
moves me is the thought of your danger. Death is nothing to me; I've
faced it hundreds of times."
"It is preposterous to talk in that way!" said Talbot, excitedly. "My
danger? I deny that there is any danger for me. As an English lady, I
shall be safe in any event. I'm sorry I ever took this disguise. If
you take it back you can go away now in safety. When they find that
you have gone, they may perhaps threaten a little, but that is all.
They will have nothing against me, and will, no doubt, set me free.
This captain seems to be a gentleman, and I should have no fear of
him. I believe that after the first explosion he would treat me with
respect, and let me go."
"And so you would really let me go?" said Brooke, after a long pause,
in a very low voice.
"Gladly, gladly," said Talbot.
"And stay here alone, in a new character, ignorant of the language,
to face the return of the mad and furious crowd?"
"Yes."
"They would tear you to pieces," cried Brooke.
"They would not."
"They would."
"Then let them. I can die," said Talbot, calmly.
"And die for me?"
"Yes, rather than let you die for me."
"And you think I am capable of going away?" said Brooke, in a
faltering voice.
At this Talbot was utterly silent. Neither spoke a word for a long
time.
"Talbot, lad," said Brooke, at length, in a gentle voice.
"Well, Brooke!"
"I am glad that I met with you."
"Are you, Brooke?"
"I should like to live," he continued, in a far-off tone, like one
soliloquizing, "after having met with you; but if I cannot live, I
shall be glad to think that I have ever known you."
Talbot said nothing to this, and there was another long silence.
"By-the-bye," said Brooke, at last, "I should like to tell you
something, Talbot, in case you should ever happen to meet with a
certain friend of mine--you might mention how you met with me, and so
on."
"Yes," said Talbot, in a low voice.
"This friend," said Brooke, "is a girl." He paused.
"Yes," said Talbot, in the same voice.
"It was in Cuba that I met with her. Her name is Dolores."
"Dolores--what?"
"Dolores Garcia."
"I shall remember the name."
"I was correspondent there, in just such a country as this, between
two hostile forces. One evening I came to a place where a gang of
insurgent Cubans were engaged in the pleasing task of burning a
house. As it happened, I was wearing the dress common to the
insurgents, and passed for one of themselves. Pressing into the
house, I found two ladies--a young girl and her mother--in an agony
of terror, surrounded by a howling crowd of ruffians. In a few words
I managed to assure them of my help. I succeeded in personating a
Cuban leader and in getting them away. Then I passed through the
crowd outside, and, getting horses, I hurried the ladies off.
Eventually we all reached Havana in safety.
"I learned that an attack had been made on the plantation, that Senor
Garcia had been killed, and that as I came up the gang was plundering
the place and threatening to destroy the women.
"Gratitude had the effect of making this young girl Dolores most
devotedly attached to me. In the course of our journey she evinced
her affection in a thousand ways. She was very young, and very
beautiful, and I could not help loving her. I was also deeply moved
by her passionate love for me, and so I asked her to be my wife, and
she consented. After reaching Havana, Spanish manners did not allow
of our seeing much of one another. Shortly afterward I had to return
to the seat of war to finish my engagement, and bade her good-bye for
two or three months. I expected at the end of that time to return to
Havana and marry her.
"Well, I went away and heard nothing more from her. At the end of
that time I returned, when, to my amazement, I learned that she had
gone to Spain, and found a letter from her which gave me the whole
reason for her departure. I had told her before that I myself was
going to Spain in the course of another year, so she expressed a hope
of seeing me there. The place to which she was going was Pampeluna.
I've already tried to find her there, but in vain. The fact is,
things have been so disturbed about here that people have changed
their abodes, and can no longer be traced; and so I have never come
upon the track of Dolores. And I mention this to you, Talbot, so that
if you should ever, by any chance, happen to meet her, you may tell
her that you saw me, and that I had been hunting after her all
through Spain. I dare say it will soothe her, for she loved me most
passionately, and must often have wondered why I never came for her.
In fact, she was so gentle, so delicate, so sensitive, and yet so
intense in her feelings, that I have often feared that the idea of my
being false might have been too much for her loving heart, and may
have cut short her young life."
After the conclusion of this story Talbot asked many questions about
Dolores, and the conversation gradually changed, until at length it
came round to the cross-questioning of Lopez which Talbot had
undergone.
"I have never told you," said she, "about my own errand here in this
country; and as this may be our last conversation, I should like very
much to tell you all."
Thus this confidence of Brooke's led to a similar act on the part of
Talbot, who now related to him her own history. As this has been
already set forth from the lips of Harry Rivers, it need not be
repeated here. Brooke listened to it in silence. At the close he
merely remarked:
"Well, Talbot, we've now made our final confessions. This is our last
interview. And I feel sad, not, my lad, at the thought of death, but
at the thought of leaving you among these villains. My only thought
is, what will become of you."
"It's strange," said Talbot, in a musing tone, "very strange. All
this that I have been telling you seems now removed back away to a
far, far distant past. It is as though it all happened in a previous
state of existence."
"I dare say," said Brooke. "Oh yes; you see you've been having a
precious hard time of it."
"Yes," mused Talbot. "Fear, hope, suspense, shame, grief, despair;
then fear, suspense, and despair; then hope and joy, followed again
by despair. So it has been, and all in a few days. Brooke, I tell you
I am another person altogether from that girl who left her home so
short a time ago. Miss Talbot--where is she? I am the lad
Talbot--comrade of a brave man--fighting with him for my life, and
now along with him resting in the Valley of the Shadow of Death."
"Bosh!" said Brooke, in a husky, choking voice. He muttered a few
unintelligible words, and then ceased.
"Death is near, Brooke--very near; I feel it."
"Talbot," said Brooke, with something like a groan, "talk of
something else."
"It's near to you."
"Well, what if it is?"
"And it's near to me."
"It's not; I tell you it's not," cried Brooke, excitedly.
"It was the old fashion of chivalry, upheld by all the Talbots, that
the page or the squire should never survive the chief. I'm a Talbot.
Do you understand me, Brooke?"
"If they did so," cried Brooke, in stronger excitement, "they were a
pack of cursed fools.
"'He that fights and runs away
May live to fight another day.'
That's my motto."
"Do you think I'll survive you?" asked Talbot, taking no notice of
Brooke's words.
Brooke gave a wild laugh.
"You'll have to, my boy--you'll have to."
"I'm your page, your vassal," said she. "I'm a Talbot. We've
exchanged arms. I've flung away the girl life. I'm a boy--the lad
Talbot. We're brothers in arms, for good or evil, Brooke."
Brooke began to whistle, and then murmured some words like these:
"Non ego perfidum
Dixi sacramentum: ibimus, ibimus,
Utcunque praecedes, supremum
Carpere iter comites parati."
"What do you say?" asked Talbot.
"Oh, nothing," said Brooke; "dog Latin--some rubbish from Horace.
Allow me, however, to remark, that all this talk about death seems to
me to be cursed bad taste."
After this he began to whistle a tune.
Suddenly he held up his hand so as to display the ring.
"Who gave you this?" he asked, carelessly.
"Mr. Rivers," said Talbot, simply. "It was our engagement ring."
Brooke gave his usual short laugh, and subsided into silence.