A Castle in Spain: A Novel

CHAPTER IX. — 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."

"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.

CHAPTER X. — HOW THE PRIEST BEARDS A LION IN HIS DEN.

The priest walked down the path into the chasm. It ran along a ledge, which at first was narrow, and quite concealed from view by dense masses of shrubbery, which grew all down the sloping sides of the abyss, covering the rock with a green mantle, and giving it an inviting aspect of richness and verdure. In such a place no one could have suspected the existence or even the possibility of any pathway; and this one must have been made with no little labor and skill, in the ancient days, when fighting bands had need to pass and repass.

After a few paces the path became more clearly defined. It was very steep, yet easy enough in the descent, and went down in a zigzag direction until it reached the bottom of the chasm. Here there was a brook whose babbling had been heard from above. In winter this was a fierce torrent, but now it was reduced to a slender and shallow stream. In its bed lay great bowlders of granite, which afforded stepping-stones to those who might wish to pass, and could be used at any time except when the water was swollen by mountain floods.

After traversing these the priest came to the other side, and began to ascend a path of the same kind as that by which he had descended. Here he climbed about halfway up, and then paused. At this point there were two paths, one of which seemed to go up to the castle, while the other went along the side of the chasm. The latter he chose, and along this he went, ascending very gradually, until at last he reached the top of the ridge on which the castle was situated.

He now turned and directed his steps straight toward the castle, which he soon reached. At the gate stood some armed tatterdemalions, whom the priest recognized as having formed part of the gang that had stopped the train the day before. Of these he took no heed, but walked up boldly and asked to see their captain. One of the guards went with him, and after traversing the court-yard they came to the keep. Here the Carlist chief was seen lolling on a stone bench outside, and smoking a villanous cigar. As the priest approached, he started to his feet with no little surprise on his face, together with a dark and menacing frown, which did not by any means augur well for the bold adventurer.

"Who are you?" he asked, fiercely.

The priest in return eyed the Carlist from head to foot, and then said, in a sharp, authoritative tone,

"Your name and rank?"

At this singular rejoinder to his question the Carlist chief looked somewhat amazed.

"My name?" said he, with a sneer. "Never mind what it is. What are you? Who are you? What the devil do you mean by coming here?"

"Give your name and rank," persisted the priest, in the same tone as before, "and beware how you trifle with one who may be your master. Who gave you authority to occupy this post?"

"Master?—authority?" cried the Carlist chief, with an oath, which was followed by a laugh. "Who is my master? I never saw him. Here, you fellows!" he cried, to some of his gang who stood near, "take this fellow off—take him inside. Let me see—take him to the lower dungeons, and let him see who is master here!"

At this a score of stout ruffians came forward to obey the order. But the priest remained as cool as before. He simply drew forth a paper, and looking round upon the ruffians, he said, in a quiet voice,

"Keep back, you fellows, and take care what you do! I'm the Curé of Santa Cruz."

"I don't believe it," he growled.

"You do believe it," said the priest, fiercely: "you know it. Besides, I hold here the mandate of the King;" and he brandished the paper, shouting at the same time, "Viva el Rey!" at which all the men caught up the same cry and shouted in unison.

The priest smiled a good-natured, amiable, forgiving smile.

"After all," said he, in a milder voice, "it is well for you to be cautious. I approve of this rough reception: it is soldierlike. It shows that you are true to the King. But read this. Give me something to eat and drink, and then I will tell you my errand."

With these words he handed the paper to the Carlist chief, who took it somewhat sulkily, and read as follows:

"Head-quarters, Vera, August 23d, 1873.

"To all officers of the army, and to all good and loyal subjects, greeting: Receive and respect our friend and lieutenant the Curé of Santa Cruz, who bears this, and is engaged in a special mission in our service. CARLOS."

On reading this the Carlist chief drew a long breath, looked around upon his followers, elevated his eyebrows, and finally turned to the priest.

"What do you want?" he asked, in no very courteous manner.

"Nothing," said the priest. "Not one single thing from you but—breakfast. Don't be alarmed. I haven't come in here to interfere with you at all. My business is elsewhere. Do you understand me?"

The priest gave him a glance which was meant to convey more than the words expressed. At this the whole manner of the Carlist chief underwent a change. He at once dropped all his sourness and gloom.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, eagerly.

The priest nodded.

"Certainly."

"Then," cried the Carlist, "you're right welcome, and I hope you'll not mind what's happened. We have to be cautious, you know, and suspicious."

"My dear friend, I assure you I shouldn't have troubled you at all, only I'm starving."

"Then I swear you shall have the best breakfast in all Spain. Come in; come in. Come, in the name of Heaven, and I'll give you a breakfast that will last you for a week."

With these words the Carlist chief led the way inside, and the priest followed.

It was the lower story of the central building, or keep, and was constructed, in the most massive manner, out of vast blocks of rough-hewn stone. The apartment was about fifty feet in length, twenty-five in width, and twelve in height. On either side there were openings into chambers or passage-ways. The roof was vaulted, and at the farther end of the apartment there was a stairway constructed of the same cyclopean stones as the rest of the edifice. All the stone-work here visible had the same ponderous character, and seemed formed to last for many centuries to come.

Around the sides of this lower hall were suspended arms and accoutrements. There were also rude massive benches, upon which were flung rugs and blankets. Here and there were little groups, not only of men, but also of women and children. On the left side there was an enormous chimney, which was large enough for a separate chamber. In this a fire was burning, and a woman was attending to the cooking of a savory stew. An aromatic smell of coffee was diffusing itself through the atmosphere; and this was surrounded and intermingled with the stronger and ranker, though less pungent, odors of the stew aforesaid.

The priest flung himself carelessly into a seat near a massive oaken table, and the Carlist chief took a seat beside him. The priest questioned the chief very closely as to his doings, and the disposition of his people through the country, while the chief surveyed the priest furtively and cautiously.

At last he said, abruptly,

"You were on the train yesterday."

"I was," replied the priest, coolly.

"Why did you not tell me who you were?"

"What a question to ask!" said the priest. "Don't you understand? When I am out I don't want any one to know or suspect. I did not choose to tell even you. Why should I? I didn't know you."

"But you lost your purse," said the chief, in rather a humble voice.

"And was there much in it?" asked the Priest.

The chief laughed.

Breakfast now followed, and of this the priest partook heartily. Then he started up.

"I must make haste," said he, "and continue my journey; but as I am going into out-of-the-way places, I shall have to ask you for some supplies."

This request was very cheerfully granted, loaves and cold meats being furnished from the Carlist larder. These the priest put into a wallet, and thus equipped, he was ready for the march.

"Adios," said he, "noble captain, till we meet again."

"Adios," said the chief.

The priest then shook hands with his entertainer and turned away. Leaving the castle, he walked down the slope for some distance, until at length he reached the skirts of the forest. Turning round here, he stood looking back cautiously, till he felt convinced that he had not been followed, and was not observed. He now plunged into the forest, and worked his way along until he came to the chasm and found the path before mentioned. Down this he went on his way back to the tower.

CHAPTER XI. — HOW THE FIRST PRIEST VANISHES, AND ANOTHER PRIEST APPEARS UPON THE

SCENE.

As the priest emerged from the brushwood at the top of the path, he suddenly found himself face to face with the lady. She had come through the opening, and was standing outside waiting there, breathless, her hands clasped, and her eyes set in a fixed and eager gaze of vigilant outlook and of terrified apprehension. As she recognized the priest, her whole expression changed; her face flushed, her eyes grew moist with tears of joy, her lips quivered.

"Oh, thank God! thank God!" she cried. "Oh, how glad I am!"

The priest stood and looked at her in silence, although there was certainly every occasion for saying something. Finally he held out his hand, and she took it in hers, which were cold as ice, and tremulous.

"Poor child!" said the priest, "you have been too excited. But were you not afraid that it might be some one else?"

"Yes," said she; "so afraid that I lost all strength and could not get back. I thought I heard something like that little short laugh of yours that you give, but then it seemed imagination. So I waited, and if it had been an enemy he would have caught me. But I was right, after all," she ended, joyously. "It was your laugh—and you."

Again the priest stood in silence looking at her.

"It's worth going over there," said he at last, "to make a fellow-creature happy by coming back."

"Oh no," she said, "not for that. Nothing can compensate for the frightful, the terrible anxiety—nothing. But I will say no more. I am ready now for any fatigue or peril. My worst fear is over."

"Oh, it's all very well to be glad to see me," said the priest, with that short laugh to which the lady had referred, "but that's nothing to the gladness you'll feel when you see what I've brought back with me. You just wait and see—that's all!"

With these words he ascended into the tower through the gap, and assisted the lady after him. They then went up the broken stairway, and out into the open air to the fallen tree where they had taken their breakfast. Upon this he seated himself, and the lady did the same. He now opened the wallet, and distributed to her some of his stock of provisions, pointing out to her with an air of triumph the fact that they had enough to last them for a week. The lady said but little and ate but little; the priest, for his part, ate less; so the breakfast was soon despatched; after which the priest loaded his pipe and smoked the smoke of peace.

The priest, as he smoked, occasionally threw a furtive glance at the lady, who now sat absorbed in her own meditations.

"I propose to ask you a few questions," said the priest, "merely for the sake of conversation, and you needn't answer unless you like. In the first place, you haven't been long in Spain, I take it?"

"No," said the lady; "only a few days."

"And you are on your way back to England?"

"Yes."

"Have you been travelling alone?"

"At first I had a maid, but she got frightened and left me at Bayonne. Since then I have had to travel alone."

"You mustn't think me too inquisitive," said the priest. "I merely wished to know in a general way, and am by no means trying to pry into your affairs."

He spoke in a careless tone. He was lolling in an easy attitude, and appeared to be enjoying his smoke very much. After saying these words he began to fuss with his pipe, which did not draw well, humming to himself at the same time some absurd verses:

"My love he was a draper's clerk, He came to see me after dark: Around the Park we used to stray To hear the lily-white bandsmen play.

CHORUS OF DRAPER'S CLERKS.

Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound, My love lies buried underground!"

A faint smile came over the lady's face as she heard these nonsensical words from one in the garb of a priest. Still, she reflected that while it was his voice that was singing, his mind was no doubt intent on something else.

"By-the-bye," resumed the priest, "as I'm asking questions, I should like to ask one more. May I?"

"Most certainly," said the lady. "What is it?"

"Well, your name, you know. It's awkward to be as we are. Now, if I were shot, and wanted you to help me, I shouldn't know what to call you."

The lady smiled.

"My name is Talbot," said she.

"Ah—Mrs. Talbot," said the priest; "thanks."

"Not 'Mrs.'" said the lady, again smiling; "Miss Talbot. My full name is Sydney Talbot."

"Sydney Talbot," repeated the priest. "Thanks. That's all. Everything else is told. I may add, however, in an incidental way, that my name is Brooke."

"Father Brooke?" said the lady, interrogatively, with a furtive smile which was perhaps occasioned by the incongruity between the priest's sacred garb and somewhat eccentric manner.

To this question the reply was not particularly appropriate. The priest, or Brooke, as he may now be called, looked with a smile of quiet drollery at Miss Talbot, and then, in a strange whining voice, began to drone out some verses of a song:

"Well," he resumed, in his natural voice, "Father Brooke isn't bad; Brother Brooke, however, would be better; but, on the whole, simple 'Brooke' is the best of all."

"Well, now, Mr. Brooke," asked the lady, anxiously, "what are our prospects? Have you found out anything?"

"Oh yes; I've had a conversation with an amiable Carlist who was on the point of blowing my brains out, and was only prevented by the unparalleled 'cheek' of the unworthy being who now addresses you."

"Did you really incur such danger?" asked Miss Talbot, in unfeigned anxiety.

"Danger? Oh, a trifle; but a miss is as good as a mile. I'm here now, safe and sound, but for two or three seconds you ran a great risk of making your journey alone. However, I made friends with them, and was entertained royally. Now, as to escape. I'm sorry to say that the country is swarming everywhere with these noble Carlists; that there is no such thing as law; that there are no magistrates, no police, no post-office, no telegraph, no railway trains, no newspapers, and no taxes except of an irregular kind."

"That is very bad," said Miss Talbot, slowly, and in a low, anxious voice.

"Oh yes," said Brooke, "but it's just as I feared.

"you know,

"That's me. I told you so. Still, there's no need to despair. It's quite plain that we cannot travel by day without being discovered, so we shall have to try it by night. This will be all the better. So you must spend this day in meditation and prayer, and also in laying up a stock of bodily and mental strength. To-night we set forth, and we must move on all night long. May I ask if there is any place in particular to which you prefer going?"

"None whatever. I must leave myself altogether to you."

"So I suppose," said Brooke.

"But is there no danger in this place, Mr. Brooke?"

"Danger? None whatever. I can't explain to you how completely this is out of the way of every one, whether marauder or honest man. You may be perfectly at your case on that score. Will this place satisfy you?"

"Perfectly. But I should like very much to tell you, Mr. Brooke, how grateful I feel for all this trouble and—"

"Ah, now, Miss Talbot!" cried Brooke, averting his face, and holding up both hands, "don't—don't! Let's drop all that sort of thing. It's part of the mockery of civilization. Words generally count for nothing. Acts are all in all. What I ask of you is for you to gather up your strength so as to be able to foot it with me and not break down. But first of all, I must say I very much wish you had some costume a little less marked than that of an English lady. Now, if you could pass as a peasant-girl, or an old woman, or a goatherd's wife, or a vender of quack medicines, or anything humble and yet national, why—"

Miss Talbot shook her head with a mournful smile, and looked troubled.

"I've had an idea all day," said Brooke, "which I suppose there's no great harm in mentioning."

"What?"

"What do you say to disguising yourself as a priest?"

"A priest? How can I?"

"Well, with a dress like this of mine. It's very convenient—long, ample, hides everything—just the thing, in fact. You can slip it on over your present dress, and—there you are, transformed into a priest. I hope you're not proud."

"I'm sure I should be only too glad to disguise myself, but where can I get the dress?"

"Take this one."

"The one that you have?"

"Yes."

"But what will you do?"

"Do without."

"But that will expose you to danger."

"No it won't. It won't make the slightest difference. I'm only wearing this for the sake of variety. The fact is, you see, I found I was growing too volatile, and so I assumed a priest's dress, in the hope that it would give me greater sobriety and weight of character. I've been keeping it up for three days, and feel a little tired of it. So you may have it—a free gift—breviary and all, especially the breviary. Come—there's a fair offer."

"I really cannot make out," said Miss Talbot, with a laugh, "whether you are in jest or earnest."

"Oh, then take me in earnest," said Brooke, "and accept the offer. You see, it's your only chance of escape. You know old Billy Magee—

"So what do you say to gracefully giving way to necessity?"

"If you really think that you will be running no risk—"

"No more than I've always been running until three days ago."

"Well, I shall be very glad indeed, and only too much obliged."

"That's an uncommonly sensible decision," said Brooke. "You see," said he, as he unbuttoned the priest's robe, "I've merely been wearing this over my usual dress, and you can do the same." As he spoke he drew off the robe. "You can slip it on," he continued, "as easy as wink, and you'll find it quite large enough every way."

And now Brooke stood divested of the priest's dress, revealing himself clothed in a suit of brown tweed—hunting-coat, knickerbockers, stockings, laced boots, etc. He then took from his coat pocket a travelling-cap with a visor, which he put upon his head.

"You can have the priest's hat too," he added, "and—But no, by Jove! I won't—no, I won't let you have the spectacles. You might wear them in case of need, though, for they're only plain glass. But hang it! I can't—I can't, and you sha'n't. Only fancy putting spectacles on the angel Gabriel!"

Meanwhile Miss Talbot had taken the priest's robe and had thrown it over her own dress. The clerical frock was of cloth, long enough to reach to her feet, and buttoned all the way from her chin down. Around the neck was a cape, which descended half-way to the knees. As she passed her arms through the sleeves she remarked that it would fit her admirably; and then taking the hat, she retired inside the tower, so as to adjust the outlines of her new costume in a more satisfactory manner than was possible before a spectator. At the door of the tower she turned.

"One thing will be against me," said she. "What shall I do about it?"

"What is that?"

"Why, my hair."

"Your hair!" repeated Brooke. "H'm—well, that is a puzzle!"

"It will interfere with anything like a real disguise, of course."

"Well, I suppose it would. In which case we can only hope not to come near enough to the enemy to be closely inspected."

"Had I not better cut it off?" said Miss Talbot.

"What!" exclaimed Brooke, with amazement in his face.

Miss Talbot repeated her question.

"Cut off your hair—that hair!" said Brooke. "What a horrible idea!"

"Will you cut it?"

"Never!" said Brooke, fervently.

"Shall I?"

Brooke drew a long breath and looked earnestly at her.

"Oh, don't ask me," said he, at length, in a dejected tone. "I'm floored! It's like throwing overboard a cargo of gold, and silver, and precious stones to lighten the ship. Yea, more—it's like the Russian woman who threw over her child to the wolves to make possible the escape of the rest of the family. But there are some who would prefer to be eaten by wolves rather than sacrifice the child."

"Well," said Miss Talbot, "your comparison of the child is a little too much; but if it comes to throwing the treasure overboard to save the ship, I shall not hesitate a moment."

Brooke made no reply, and Miss Talbot went into the tower.

Brooke then resumed his seat, and, looking thoughtfully into vacancy, sang in a low voice all to himself:

CHAPTER XII. — HOW BROOKE AND TALBOT TAKE TO FLIGHT.

Brooke was roused from his meditations by a light footstep close beside him. He looked up, and saw Miss Talbot standing before him in her new costume. As he looked he rose to his feet and gazed at her fixedly without a word.

The change was wonderful.

It was no longer a young lady that he saw—it was a young priest. The broad hat came down low upon the head, and beneath it there was a face full of sweet dignity and gentle grace—a face serene, and noble, and pure. Such a face Raffaelle loved to reproduce while portraying the Angel of the Visitation, where youth, and radiant beauty, and unsullied purity, and divinest grace all appear combined in one celestial visage.

Brooke looked for some time with the an intent gaze, and in utter silence.

"How do you think I look?" asked Miss Talbot.

"Look?" repeated Brooke. He hesitated as if at a loss, and then went on in a way that was peculiarly his own. "Look? Oh, first-rate—very well—very well indeed. In fact, I had no idea that you could transform yourself so completely. I believe I was on the point of saying something about a vision of angels, but I'll be commonplace. All I can say is, that if I were to meet such a priest in real life, I'd down on my knees at once, make a confession, and—No, I wouldn't; I'd try to become a priest myself, so as to be always somewhere near him. And if he were a monk, I'd join the same monastery; and if he were a missionary, I'd go with him to the uttermost ends of the earth; if the cannibals ate him up, I'd make them eat me too; and, in any event, I should feel that in such company I should be nearer heaven than anywhere else. For, you see, you've always lived in a serene atmosphere, where you have known nothing of the evil of the world, and so your face has on it the stamp of Heaven itself, which it first received, and which has never been effaced. So, you see, you're just the one to go about as a priest. Oh, it's a great advantage to be as you are, and to have that angelic face! Like the old man in the song: