A Castle in Spain: A Novel

These words occurred to him, and he murmured them to himself. It was to Dolores that he applied them, and naturally too; for how ridiculously inapplicable to Katie would they be! All else was now forgotten except Dolores. He felt a longing after her that was like homesickness. The past all came back. He recalled her as she had been when he first met her at Valencia. A thousand little incidents in his life there, which had been for a time forgotten, now revived in his memory. He had been for months at their house and had been nursed through a long illness. He had been loaded with kindness and affection. The aged mother had been his nurse during his illness, and Dolores had been his companion during his convalescence. He had left them, expecting soon to return. Circumstances, however, had arisen which kept him away, and he had forgotten her. Now, however, a stronger feeling had arisen for her, as Dolores had appeared in more than her olden beauty, with the additional charm of a strange, pathetic grace, and a wistful look in her dark eyes that seemed to speak of something more than ordinary friendship. She had spoken of the days at Valencia; she had reproached him for forgetting. She herself had not forgotten those days—the days in which they used to talk and walk and sing together.

As there was nothing to divert his mind from these thoughts, Ashby gave himself up to them, and thus became more helpless against them. It was in such a mood as this that he lay upon his rude couch, unable to sleep, and wondering what was to be the end of his present adventure. Should he ever see her again? Was she here now, or had they let her go? The thought that she might possibly have been set free, that she might now be far away, was too distressing to be entertained. If so, then his prison seemed doubly dark. If so, then what could he do? Even if he should become free, what was he to do? Upon one thing he was resolved, and that was to seek after her until he might find her. And Katie? Well, the fact is, Katie was left out of consideration.

Hours had passed. Ashby could not sleep. His mind was as active as ever, and still, as ever, his thoughts all gathered about Dolores.

Suddenly, in the very midst of these thick-teeming fancies, his attention was arrested by a strange sound.

It was only a slight rustle, scarce audible, yet still he heard it, and under such circumstances it seemed most mysterious. In an instant he was all attention. He lay motionless, yet listened with intense watchfulness, peering at the same time into the dark room, where the moonlight struggled through the low, narrow windows.

After a little while he thought that he heard the sound again. He listened, without motion.

Then there came a different sound. It was a low whisper—a whisper which, however, penetrated to his very soul:

"Assebi!"

Was there any other in all the world who would pronounce his name in that way? It was the well-known, well-remembered, and dearly loved name as it had been pronounced by Dolores in the old days at Valencia. Coming thus to him at such a time, it seemed too good to be true. He was afraid that he had been deceived by his own fancy; he feared to move lest he might dispel this sweet vision. Yet he hoped that he might not be mistaken; and in this hope, scarce expecting an answer, he said, in a gentle whisper,

"Dolores!"

"I am here!" said a soft voice.

At this Ashby's heart beat wildly, and a thrill of rapture rushed through every nerve and fibre of his being. He sprang up and peered through the gloom, and moved forward in the direction from which the voice seemed to have come. At this moment he did not stop to consider how Dolores could have got there. It was enough that she really was there, and all other feelings were lost in his deep joy.

"Dolores," he said, "where are you? I don't see you."

Through the room a figure now advanced across the moonbeams. He saw the figure. In another instant he had caught Dolores in his arms, and held her strained close to his wildly throbbing heart. But Dolores struggled away.

"Oh no!" she said, in a tone of distress, speaking in her sweet Spanish—"oh no, Señor Assebi. This is cruel—when I have risked so much for you!"

"Forgive me, dearest Dolores," said Ashby; "but you have come to me like an angel from heaven in my darkest hour. And I have thought of you, and of you only, ever since you left me at Burgos. I wandered all through the streets there to find you. I have been in despair at losing you. I have been wondering whether I should ever see you again—and now, dearest, sweetest Dolores, I have you again!"

All this was rapidly uttered in a resistless torrent of words, in which all his long pent-up feelings flowed forth.

Dolores began to sob.

"I didn't think this," she said, "or I should have been afraid to come. Señor, you are false to your English bride."

"English bride!" cried Ashby, scornfully. "What is she? A doll! I never wish to see her again. My fancy for her was a whim—a passing whim! You, Dolores—you are the only one that I love! I love you! I love you, I adore you! my own—"

"Señor," cried Dolores, tearing away her hands, which Ashby had seized in his, "I will instantly leave you if you are so dishonorable. All this is insult to me—yes, to me. Oh, señor, you will break my heart!"

As Dolores said this, sobs burst from her. She glided away into the gloom, still sobbing. Ashby gave way utterly.

"Dolores," he cried, in a tone of entreaty—"Dolores, forgive me! I will never offend again—never—never! Oh, forgive me! Come back, Dolores! Oh, do not leave me, Dolores!"

At this Dolores relented, and Ashby saw her approaching him again. He advanced toward her.

"Be calm," she said; "speak low; we are in danger."

"But how did you get here?" asked Ashby.

"I will tell you another time. It is a secret passage."

"A secret passage?"

"Yes. I have come to tell you that I can save you. You may escape."

"Escape?"

"Yes. I know the way out."

"How does that happen?"

"Oh, I have been here before."

"You!—here?"

"Yes. When I was a child I was here. My father lived here. He had a plantation. But enough; I know the way out."

"But haven't you run too much risk in coming here?"

"I have run a risk," said Dolores, slowly, "but not—too—much."

"A risk?"

"Yes. I went into the wrong room. A man was asleep there. I went to him and touched him, and whispered in his ear your name."

"Dolores!"

"Hush! be calm, señor. Remember your promise."

"Who was the man?"

"I could not see him. He pursued me, but I escaped."

"But you!—how did you get here?"

"By a secret passage, as I said."

"In what part of the castle are you?"

"Oh, in the story above."

"Do they treat you well?" asked Ashby, in a tone of tender solicitude.

"I have nothing to complain of."

"Do you feel lonely? I wonder if you have felt as I have?"

Dolores sighed.

"Sometimes," she said, "I have felt lonely."

"And you have come here to save me?"

"Yes—why not?"

"But you are risking much—perhaps your life."

It all burst forth now.

"I don't care," said Dolores, impetuously, "if I can save—you!"

Ashby made no reply. He took the little hand of Dolores gently and tenderly, without any resistance on her part, and held it in silence.

CHAPTER XXVII. — HOW MR. ASHBY AND MISS DOLORES GARCIA CARRY ON A VERY INTERESTING

CONVERSATION.

Ashby stood thus, holding the little hand of Dolores, and was overcome by the strongest emotions. He was in a very trying position. Her presence filled him with joy, yet she would not allow him to express that joy. Being bound to another, he was forced by Dolores to respect that bond. And yet, what must her feelings be toward him, since she had come here to see him, venturing so far and risking so much? Who else in the world would do this for him? Would Katie? The idea was too absurd. Katie was a mere butterfly; but Dolores, with her intense nature, her passionate self-devotion, was formed out of that stuff from which the heroine is made. Katie could lose all she loved best, and still go on smiling and smiling; but Dolores could lay down her life for her friend. (Such were the sentiments of Ashby on this occasion, and need not be considered as by any means a fair estimate of the real character of the young lady in question. Katie has yet to speak for herself.)

So Ashby felt himself debarred from making any strong demonstration of feeling either by word or act. He was afraid that Dolores might resent it. She might even fly from him as mysteriously as she had come. He was bound, therefore, to set a watch upon himself, and repress his feelings most strongly. It seemed to him a great concession on her part that she permitted him even to hold her hand. This was of itself most sweet, even if he could say nothing of those thoughts that were swelling within him.

"How did you manage to hide yourself so at Burgos?" he asked, after a long silence.

"I did not hide," said Dolores. "I went to that house where my friends were; and on the following morning they took me to a hotel where they said there was an English family. These were the Russells, and they consented to let me travel with them as far as I was going. Your English maiden is very beautiful, señor."

Dolores spoke these last words in a tone full of pathos.

"She is a pink-and-white doll," said Ashby, sharply. "Tell me about yourself, Dolores. Do you know"—and he bent down low over her—"do you know how I tried to see you? I was up at four, and from that until ten I paced the streets in all directions, hoping to get a glimpse of you. Did you know that I was looking for you? Then at last I saw you with that beast of a tailor, and I was in despair."

"What! could you not join their party? I wondered why you did not come to speak to—to me," said Dolores, "and I felt hurt—because I thought I might never see you again."

"Dolores," said Ashby, taking her hand in both of his, and drawing nearer to her, "I swear that at that time I'd have given my right arm to speak to you. But that devil of a tailor is my bitter enemy; and you saw the quarrel we had in the railway station at Madrid."

"Then you did not purposely—avoid me?" said Dolores, in a faltering voice.

"Oh, Dolores!" said Ashby, in a reproachful tone. He tried to draw her nearer, but Dolores would not allow it.

"I thought that I should like to say good-bye, and it seemed sad to have you appear to avoid me."

"By heavens, Dolores!" cried Ashby, "I had made up my mind to leave the train and follow you to Pampeluna."

Dolores sighed.

"You could not have left your English maiden," said she.

"I could—I would!" cried Ashby. "By heavens, I would! She is nothing to me—nothing better than a kitten. The moment you came, I understood all my feeling for her. It was nothing. Beside you, she sinks into utter insignificance. You, Dolores, are everything to me. I tell you, you are infinitely dearer to me than that—"

"Hush, señor," said Dolores; "I will not—I will—will—will not listen to one single, single word of this."

"But, oh, dearest, sweetest Dolores, will you not let me tell you how I love you?" said Ashby, drawing her closer to him.

Dolores shrank away.

"Oh no—no, no!" she said. "I will not listen—never—never—never!"

"I tell you, Dolores," continued Ashby, "since I have seen you I have discovered that all the world and everything in it isn't worth a straw to me unless I have you. I swear to you that when you left me at Burgos all the light of life went out, and all the joy and sweetness of life left me. I'd rather stand here in this prison with you than be a king outside without you. And I'm glad that these devils of Carlists have captured us."

As Ashby spoke these words in a low, fervid, excited whisper, he held Dolores tight in his arms, pressed to his quick-throbbing heart; nor could she draw away from him, in spite of her shrinking back. In fact, the poor little thing did not seem to have the will to get away from him, for the end of it was that her head fell down helplessly on his breast, and she began to cry:

"I—think—it's—cruel," she sobbed, "cruel in you!"

Ashby pressed her more closely to his heart in the same "cruel" manner, and kissed away her tears.

"You're not kind to me at all," sighed Dolores.

To this observation Ashby made no reply, thinking, perhaps, that at that moment words were of no particular use.

"It's very cruel," repeated Dolores, "and I did not think you would be so unkind—"

To this Ashby's answer was, as before, by acts that were more eloquent than words.

"Dolores," said he, as soon as he was able to express himself coherently, "if you had not come, I really think I should have killed myself."

"Did you really feel so badly?" asked Dolores, in a tender voice.

"My heart ached," said Ashby; "it ached for the sight of you. Do you know what heartache is, darling? Do you know what it is to hunger and thirst and long and yearn after some one?"

Dolores sighed. She said nothing, but her head rested more closely on Ashby's breast, and one little hand stole timidly up and was laid lightly on his shoulder.

"Do you know anything about such feelings, Dolores?" persisted Ashby.

"All," said Dolores, in a scarce audible whisper, "all—all—all! But tell me," said she, looking up as though trying to see his face in the gloom, "who was it?"

"Who was it? What a question! You! you, darling! you, Dolores!"

"Not the English maiden?" she asked.

"She!" said Ashby, contemptuously; "she is a doll—a butterfly—a kitten! She is nothing—a poor creature with no brains and no heart! Even her beauty is mere prettiness. There is no soul in her face, no lightning in her glance."

"And who has soul in her face and lightning in her glance?" asked Dolores, shyly.

"Who? You! you, my darling, dark-eyed Dolores! you, with your deep, unfathomable, glowing, soul-lit eyes that pierce to my inmost heart, and make me thrill at the recollection."

"And won't you say that all again?" said Dolores; "and won't you say that about the English maid? I love to hear you call her names."

Dolores said this with the innocence and frank simplicity of a child.

"She is a baby!" said Ashby; "the English maiden—a mere baby! She can only smile, and smile, and be silly. Her only desire is to find some one who will pet her. She can only live in the sunshine. She is a butterfly! She has no heart, no soul! She is a doll to be looked at, but she can give no return. She is a kitten that thinks of nothing but play. But as for me, I give all my heart and all my love to a girl I know, who is no mere fair-weather friend, but one who has clung to me when others were false, who has come to me in my darkness and my despair, so that my dungeon has become a heaven, and this dark night is the brightest time of my life. And this girl—this, my Spanish girl, is my idol and my deity. I adore her, for I know that she stands ready to give up all for my sake, and to lay down her very life for me. Never—never in all my life have I known anything like the deep, intense, vehement, craving, yearning, devouring love that I feel for her. It even makes me smile to think how feeble and contemptible other feelings have been in comparison with this. I want no other occupation than to spend all my hours recalling all that my darling love has ever said—in recalling the days at Valencia, before I knew she was so dear, and the highest bliss of life I have now. I could be willing to die, and could even die gladly, my darling, darling Dolores, if I could die with your hand in mine."

Ashby was going on farther in this pleasing strain, when suddenly, and without a moment's warning, Dolores gave a spring and vanished.

Ashby stood confounded. Then he stared all around. Then he called another,

"Dolores! Dolores! Don't leave me!"

A voice came back through the gloom:

"H-s-s-s-h! I must not stay any longer."

"But shall I never see you again?"

"Certainly; I will come soon, and show you the passage-way."

"Where are you?"

"Never mind—good-night!"

"Oh, Dolores, wait—one word more."

"Be quick!" said Dolores, and her voice now sounded nearer.

"You will see me again?" said Ashby, in tones of entreaty. "You will not fly and leave me all alone? You will not leave me in this way? I may be taken away from this room, Dolores, or you may be taken to another room; and then how can you get to me? Show me how you came here. You might do that much for me. Only think what dangers there are."

Dolores paused a moment.

"Well," said she, "only promise one thing."

"What?"

"That you will not try to visit me. That would be dangerous. Others are with me."

"I will not; I promise—except, of course, in cases of the greatest necessity."

"If you do," said Dolores, "I shall think that you have not come for me; I shall think it is for the English maiden. And now, come; I will show you the way."

Once more Dolores appeared through the gloom.

CHAPTER XXVIII. — IN WHICH "HIS MAJESTY" FALLS IN LOVE.

Mrs. Russell's position was a very peculiar and a very trying one. From the remarks of "His Majesty" she had reason to believe that her beloved, yet unfortunate, husband had been found guilty of treason against that august monarch, and had been executed. At the same time, "His Most Sacred Majesty" had evinced what appeared to be a devoted attachment to her humble self. Now, what was a high-toned woman to do under such circumstances? Mourn over the departed one? Most certainly; that she would ever do. But what about "His Majesty" and the royal attentions? Should she turn a deaf ear to that too, too eloquent tongue, dash down the crown of Spain, and busy herself in unavailing regrets for the lost one? Before doing so it would be well to pause.

And then there were other considerations. It was not the man who must be considered, but the King. It was not her own feelings which she must regard, but the well-being of Spain, the good of Europe, and the interests of humanity. Would it not be better that the throne of Spain should be filled by a virtuous Englishwoman than by some frivolous Continental princess? Would it not be better that the Queen of Spain should emulate the domestic graces of a Victoria than the corrupt follies of an Isabella? Should she now, out of selfish private grief, deprive Spain of such an inestimable boon? Would Spain forgive her? Would England? Nay, would the world? Could she forgive herself?

"Nay, nay," she said to herself, "this is not a time for weakness. My heart must ever lie entombed in the grave of my dear lost Johnny; yet State reasons compel me to bestow my hand. I cannot resist the cry of stricken Spain. Yes, thou royal wooer! take my hand—it is thine; and my only sorrow is that I cannot yet give thee all this stricken heart. Yet patience, fond one; it may all be thine in time—all—all."

Katie was surprised to observe an unwonted dignity suddenly come over Mrs. Russell.

She informed that young person that she needn't call her "Auntie" now, but "Madame," or "Señora," and proceeded to drop mysterious hints, from which Katie's quick wit soon gathered the whole of the facts of the case.

Katie exulted so in this discovery that she felt happier than ever in her life before, and her only trouble was that she had no one to whom she might tell this. However, she did the best she could, and set herself to the task of confirming Mrs. Russell in her views and intentions; in which she was so successful that the latter began to imagine herself as almost already on the throne; and when Katie once or twice accidentally addressed her as "Your Majesty," the good lady did not check her.

Another visit from "His Majesty" found Mrs. Russell like ripe fruit ready to be gathered. On this occasion, as before, the august monarch came alone. He was in high good-humor, and smelt strongly of whiskey. He began, in a strain of gallantry, complimenting the ladies in general on their numerous charms.

"Yez oughtn't to be kept here undher lock an' kay," said "His Majesty," "an' mesilf 'ud be the proud man to let yez out, ivery one av yez, but thin how do I know that I'd iver see yez agin? I must kape yez till me fate's decoided. I don't know yet that ye'd be willin' to come to terruuis; an' so ye're loike O'Rafferty in the song:

"Ah, sire," said Mrs. Russell, with a sigh, "Your Royal Majesty holds us by stronger bonds than bolts and bars."

"Be jabers!" exclaimed "His Majesty," "that's good! that's nate! that's illigant! I couldn't bate that mesilf, an' I hope that all the ladies prisent will join in that sintimint."

As he spoke, "His Majesty" looked hard at Katie, but that young lady did not catch the royal eye.

"The throne av Spain," continued "His Majesty," "an' the crown an' sceptre av Spain, an' all the r'y'l regalia, an' all the moight an' majesty an' magnificence av its pomp an' power—be jabers! they're all goin' a beggin' in this room; an' there's one here that's only got to wink, an' it's hers, every bit av it."

Mrs. Russell here made desperate efforts to catch the royal eye, but to no purpose, for that eye was fixed on Katie.

"Yis," continued "His Majesty," "an' afore to-morrow noon it 'ud be all hers, any time at all—crown an' sceptre an' all—an' the marriage ceremony cud come off in the mornin', loike Tim:

The habits of this illustrious being were singular, and his tendency to make odd quotations, which were not always particularly relevant, was not the least surprising of his ways. In this last quotation Mrs. Russell found several objectionable expressions; but on the whole the idea was a flattering one, for the subject of the narrative was represented as "marrying a widow;" and this little circumstance was taken as a fresh proof of "His Majesty's" devotion.

"Yez mustn't think," continued "His Majesty," "that there's any lack av our r'y'l attintion to yez because yez haven't got much to brag av in the way av food; begorra! I'm in the same box mesilf, an' it isn't much at all at all I can get here except mutton, an' it's mesilf that 'ud give all the mutton in Spain for a bit av a pratie. Howandiver, I hope to get some fish by to-morrow mornin'. If we could only get a taste av a few praties there'd be nothin' wantin'; for—

These and other cheerful remarks of a general nature were addressed by "His Majesty" to the company at large. It is true, the royal eye was fixed exclusively on Katie, and therefore the royal remarks were probably so many efforts to do the agreeable to her. But that young lady persistently evaded the royal eye; and as Dolores was disregarded altogether, it was natural enough that Mrs. Russell should appropriate all the royal remarks and make the necessary replies.

"Ah, sire! your 'Royal Majesty' is so very funny! Are all the crowned heads thus?"

"All av thim—ivery mother's son av thim. An' they're an illigant lot. But moind this—it's mesilf that bates the whole lot, out-an'-out. Ye know, I'm not only King av Spain, but heir to the crown av France."

"Is it possible?" said Mrs. Russell.

"Divil a loie I'm tellin'," said "His Majesty." "It's thrue, so it is. I'm nixt av kin to Heuri Cinq—that's Chambord, ye know. The Count av Paris is Orleans, not Bourbon. I'm Bourbon, begorra! An' whin Chambord doies, an' the nixt revolution takes place in France, I'll march on Paris an' give pace to that unhappy counthry. An', be jabers! I'll take me wife wid me, an' we'll live in Paris, an' I'll get her the most illigant dhresses, an' coort coschumes, an' bonnets, an' boots, an' laces, an' gims, an' jools, that iver any woman wore. The Quane av Spain 'll be the Quane av France too; an' what's more, she'll be the quane of beauty an' fashion, an' the ex-Empress Eugenie'll be nowhere. She'll be forgotten."

It was thus that the royal wooer tried to dazzle Katie's imagination; but whatever the effect on her may have been, it is certain that Mrs. Russell experienced the full effect of the dazzling visions which those words were intended to call up.

"An' now," said "His Majesty," starting up, "we must be off. We've got business. But we hope to see yez soon, an' have it all arranged. Whisper, darlint"—and he bent down his royal head close to Mrs. Russell's tingling ear—"whisper, jool: I'm wantin' to have a discoorse wid ye—somethin' important—I must see ye alone. It's ill convaynient just now, an' I don't want to be overheard. I'll wait till the gyerruls are aslape, an' I'll luk in. Ye'll moind, will ye? This noight, jool."

"Ah, sire—ah, 'Your Majesty,'" sighed Mrs. Russell, "I'm ready—why not now?"

"Whis-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-sht! shure ye'll spoil all, so ye will. Only moind—to-noight!"

"Ah, sire, I'll never forget—never—never!"

"Thin moind to be on the luk-out," said "His Majesty;" and with these remarkable words he retreated, leaving Mrs. Russell in a state of mind which, as the novelists say, "can better be imagined than described."

CHAPTER XXIX. — HOW HARRY PAYS ANOTHER VISIT, AND MEETS WITH A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

Harry's loneliness was by no means alleviated at finding that Katie was so near. It was, indeed, rather aggravated, for to our light-hearted friend it seemed intolerable that Katie should be so near and yet so far. She was separated from him by only a few paces, and yet he was compelled to keep away from her. To run the risk of discovery was not to be thought of. By day it was necessary to put up with his solitude as best he might. He was sufficiently wary not to forget himself, and he did not lose sight of the probability that he was watched. The discovery of that passage-way made it seem not unlikely that this Castle in Spain was all honeycombed with other passages; that its ponderous walls were all a sham; that these massive stones served merely as a blind to conceal innumerable hiding-places and secret chambers. He was sure now that these walls had ears, and perhaps eyes also; and therefore he determined to do nothing which could lead to the discovery of his secret.

At length evening came, and then Harry began to breathe freely. He was fully resolved on paying another visit to Katie at the earliest possible moment. He knew that she would be expecting him. She would not be asleep this time. There were many things which he wished to say, and, above all, he wished to persuade her to venture into the passage-way herself, at some favorable opportunity, so that they might see one another more frequently.

It was about nine o'clock when Harry entered the passage-way. It was quite dark, the room being illuminated in part, as before, by the struggling moonbeams. He went along the passage-way and came to the end at the other chimney. There he paused, and waited, and watched. Gradually he became aware of some one beneath. He gave a low whisper: "Katie!"

A low whisper was returned: "Harry!" Upon this he descended softly and noiselessly.

Katie herself was there. She had been expecting him.

"They are all asleep," she said. "I thought I'd just come here to see if you were coming."

"You little pet! You knew I'd come."

"I thought you might, you know."

"This day has been so horribly long, Katie; I thought it would never end. See here—can't we manage to run away? I wish I could find some way out. But you're chilly. This air is damp, and there is a bad draught down the chimney. Come in to the corner of the room."

"But, oh, do be very, very cautious!" said Katie.

Holding her hand, Harry went stealthily into the room, and drew her with him as quietly as possible, till they reached a corner of the room on the right of the fireplace. This corner was all shrouded in gloom, so that if the sleepers had awakened they could have seen nothing. Here the two found themselves quite secure for the time being; and as all the room was perfectly silent, they were not afraid to resume their stealthy whispers.

"Have you been lonely to-day, Katie?" asked Harry, in a tender voice.

"Oh, a little."

"A little!" repeated he, in a reproachful tone.

"But there's been such an awful lot of fun," said Katie; "I've been almost bursting to tell some one—that's you, you know."

"Fun?" said Harry, wonderingly; "what fun?"

"Oh, that absurd old Paddy King, Don Carlos, as he calls himself—only he's no more a king than I am. Don't you think he's some strolling Irish vagabond adventurer?"

"Irish vagabond? I don't know," said Harry. Now Harry had only heard "His Majesty" speak in Spanish, and therefore did not see the point at all.

"Well, for my part, I'm sure he's an Irishman," said Katie. "Mrs. Russell says that he learned some English from an Irish priest; but that wouldn't account for his queer songs."

"Songs?"

"Oh, he's utterly ridiculous! Who or what he really is I cannot imagine. And, do you know, the best fun of all is—he's in love with me."

"In love with you?" Harry cried, recoiling as he said it.

"Yes, of course—why not?" said Katie.

"The infernal cad!" cried Harry.

"Oh, what naughty language!" said Katie. "Oh!"

"D—n him!" cried Harry, furiously. "What does the fellow mean?"

"I declare I won't listen to such shocking language," said Katie. "Now stop!"

"Well—but what does the scoundrel mean?" repeated Harry, in jealous wrath.

"Well, he means to try—to marry me."

"Marry!—you!"

"Oh yes; and he says he'll make me Queen of Spain—and he says he has a claim to the crown of France also, which he promises to share with me."

"Good heavens!" said Harry, in utter consternation; for Harry had not yet done more than vaguely suspect that "His Majesty" might be any other than what he claimed to be, and this design of his upon Katie seemed now a peril of no common magnitude.

"Why, Katie," he added, after a pause, "a royal personage can't marry a private person like you. It's illegal, you know."

"Oh, but the fun of it is he's only a common Irishman, and he drinks whiskey, and has an awful brogue. Oh, it's such fun to listen to him! But the greatest fun of all is, auntie believes in him. She thinks he is really Don Carlos; and, best of all, she thinks he is making love to her, and proposing to her."

"To her! Why, she has a husband already."

"Oh, but she thinks he has been killed."

"Killed? Good heavens! Is that really so? Poor old Russell! Oh, heavens! The villains! They'd do it, too."

And Harry thought of the bonds and the search after them. It seemed to him not at all unlikely that they had killed Russell so as to get at these, or perhaps to punish him for not giving them up. Horror now quite overwhelmed him. He felt even shocked at Katie's levity.

"But Mrs. Russell," he said; "how does she bear this horrible, calamity?"

"Bear it?" said Katie; "why, she wants to be Queen of Spain, and France too!"

"What, when her husband lies murdered close by? Oh, heavens!—oh, good heavens!"

"Well, do you know, it does seem very odd indeed."

"But you, Katie—how can you talk of such horrors in such a way? What will be the fate of the rest of us, after this?"

"Why, you poor foolish boy, you needn't scold and go on so. I don't believe he's dead any more than you are. I believe that "His Majesty" only said it in fun. In fact, he never did actually say so."

Harry sighed a sigh of perplexity.

"But, you know," continued Katie, "Mrs. Russell went and got it into her poor old head. Oh, she's very, very imaginative, poor dear old auntie, and she would have it so. And she thinks that all the speeches which "His Majesty" makes at me are intended for her."

"The wretched creature!" said Harry; "to speculate upon her husband's death, and think of such a thing as marriage."

"Oh, but she says that it is not love that makes her think of it, but State policy."

"State fiddlesticks!"

"She says that Mary Queen of Scots married Bothwell after her husband's murder, from motives of State policy."

"Oh, good heavens!" said Harry, whose sense of honor and loyalty and affection, and even of common decency, was utterly outraged at such a revelation; "and she always seemed such a quiet, good, well-meaning sort of a person."

"But she means well now," said Katie. "She says her marriage is to be for the good of Spain and the world generally."

At this Harry was silent. He could find no more words to express his feelings. Besides, although all the words, ejaculations, and exclamations above reported were uttered with as much caution and in as low a tone as were consistent with his excited feelings, still, they made more noise than was wise under the circumstances, and there were signs that some of the sleepers were restless. These, at last, attracted the attention of the two and interrupted their conversation.

Several heavy sighs from a remote corner of the room showed that some one was awake, or waking, and this warning forced them to keep silence for some time. At length all was still, and Harry ventured to speak again.

"Oh, Katie," said he, "can't you do something with that wretched woman?"

"No," said Katie. "I'm sure all I say only makes her worse. She wants me now to address her as 'Your Majesty!'"

"She's mad," said Harry; "the woman's utterly mad!"

"Well, she's got some great secret now which she won't tell. As 'His Majesty' was leaving, the last time, he kept up some very mysterious whisperings with her. I've been teasing her all day to tell me what they were, but in vain. She's as close as the grave. A great crisis is approaching. And the fun of it is she doesn't know that it's me, and not her, that 'His Majesty' means."

"You! Oh, Katie, don't talk in that indifferent way."

"Why?"

"Oh, don't you see? You are here so much in his power. Oh, we must fly. I'll hunt along the passage to-night, and I'm sure I'll find something. I'm sure there must be a way out."

"But I don't want to go," said Katie; "that is, not just yet."

"Not want to go?"

"No, not till I have some more fun, and see how this is going to end; but—"

Here Katie stopped abruptly and clutched Harry's arm convulsively. Harry, too, at the same instant started, and both stood peering into the dark, and listening attentively.

For there had come a sudden noise.

It was a very peculiar and a very startling noise. It was a low, shuffling sound, as of some one moving stealthily, and it arose from the direction of the fireplace—the very place where Harry's retreat would lie in case of discovery. But now that retreat seemed cut off; and there seemed to be some one there who, perhaps, had come on his track. Harry's only thought was that his room had been entered and his absence discovered, upon which his guards had at once come through in search of him. How many there were he could not tell. He could do nothing, however. He could only stand still and watch. Soon, he thought, others would come; lights would be produced, and he would be discovered.

"Leave me!" said Harry, in a faint whisper. "It's one of the guards. I'm lost!"

Katie's answer thrilled through every nerve of the listener.

"Then if you are lost, I will be lost with you!"

Saying this, she twined both her arms round his arm, and held it pressed tight to her throbbing heart.

Harry stood erect, vigilant, staring.