A Castle in Spain Part 32

"A coward?" said Brooke. "Come, I like that. Why, Talbot, boy though you are, there is enough stuff in you to fit out half a dozen men.

You're a Talbot, to begin with; and, in addition to that, you are that sort of a person that you would let yourself be torn in pieces for the sake of a comrade."

"I'm glad you think that of me," said Talbot, gently.

"I was going to tell you about my younger brother," said Brooke. "We were in Cuba together, where the fighting was--just such a country as this--and I was trying to work my way along between the two forces so as to get to Matanzas. The danger was frightful. Neither side gave any quarter. It was a war of savages, and my chief anxiety was for poor Otto. But you never saw any one pluckier than he was--as cool, as calm, as fearless as though he was in a parlor. So we went for weeks."

"And what became of him?" asked Talbot, as Brooke paused.

"We escaped," said he, "and reached Matanzas--but there--the poor boy--died. So you see, Talbot, since you have joined me my memory goes back to those Cuban days; and whenever I say to you 'Talbot, lad,' it seems as though I am speaking to my dear lost Otto. And here let me say, Talbot, that if I ever seem familiar, you must not think it want of respect; think rather that I am mistaking you for Otto, and forgive it."

"Do not say that," said Talbot. "I should prefer to have you think of me as 'Otto,' and even call me 'Otto.'"

"No, Talbot, boy, you have your own name, and by that I will call you."

"It is strange, Brooke," said Talbot. "We have only known one another for a short time, but it seems as though we had been friends for a lifetime. I suppose this is owing to the feeling of comrades.h.i.+p which has sprung up between us--or perhaps because you think of me as your younger brother. For my part, I feel as though we two were comrades, like soldiers that we read of, only my part in the business will be a miserable one, I fear. We are brothers in arms, Brooke, aren't we?"

"Brothers in arms," said Brooke, in a soft, gentle tone; "yes, Talbot, lad, that's exactly what we are. Yes, comrade, we have a fight before us, and only each other to rely on."

"In our family," said Talbot, "there is a cimeter which is an heirloom. It was brought from the East during the Crusades by an ancestor. While there, he was wounded and taken prisoner by a Saracen emir named Hayreddin. This Saracen treated him with chivalrous generosity, and a warm friends.h.i.+p sprung up between them. They exchanged arms, the Saracen taking Talbot's sword, while Talbot took Hayreddin's cimeter. Hayreddin set Talbot free. Afterward he himself was taken prisoner, and Talbot was fortunate enough to procure his freedom. The cimeter is the very one which my ancestor brought back from the Holy Land."

"You and I," said Brooke, in a cheery tone, "will be Talbot and Hayreddin. You are the Christian knight, and I am the heathen. It's a pity we can't exchange arms."

"Yes, we can't very well do that."

"We can exchange something at any rate, comrade," said Brooke. "You have my priest's dress--let me have something of yours by way of exchange."

"But what can I give?" said Talbot.

"Anything, from a needle to a needle-gun. It would be better if portable--an old ribbon, a portable pincus.h.i.+on, a bootlace."

"I have something," said Talbot, suddenly, "if you will take it, Brooke; but perhaps you will think it only a bother."

"No, Talbot, lad, brother--brother in arms, and comrade of mine!--nothing that you can give shall be regarded as other than a comrade's pledge."

Talbot withdrew her hand, which Brooke had been holding all this time.

"Here is something," said she. "It will do better than anything else."

"What is it?" asked Brooke, who could not see in the gloom what it was that she offered.

"A ring," said Talbot, in a voice that had sunk to a whisper.

"A ring," repeated Brooke. "Is it your ring, Talbot? Then put it on my finger with your own hands, comrade, and I swear to you by a soldier's word that it shall never leave me, either in life or death."

Talbot made no reply, but put the ring, which she had detached from her own finger, upon the little finger of Brooke's left hand.

Not a word was said by either, and there was now a long silence, which was finally broken by Brooke.

"Talbot," said he, "don't you think you can sleep a little?"

"I'll try."

"Do. If you could only sleep a little, I should feel very glad indeed."

"I'll try," said Talbot again, "and you must not suppose that I am awake."

Talbot now drew off for a little distance, while Brooke remained as before, and was left to his own meditations. All was still within, and outside the sounds gradually lessened, until at length they were heard no more. Slowly the time pa.s.sed, and to Brooke it had never in his life seemed so long. Not a sound escaped from Talbot. Was she asleep?

"Talbot, lad!" said Brooke, in a low voice.

"Well, Brooke," was the gentle reply.

"Have you been asleep?"

"Oh--well--a little."

"No, Talbot," said Brooke, "you have not been asleep. And you say that you were merely to make it pleasant for me. You are full of anguish, Talbot, but you keep up a cheerful tone so as not to add to my burdens. You see I know it all, Talbot, and understand you thoroughly, so there need not be any further dissimulation."

"Brooke," said Talbot, "you are feverish from anxiety, and fanciful.

Be yourself. Sing one of your droll songs. Talk nonsense. If you go on in this mournful strain, you will make me break down utterly."

At this Brooke drew a long breath.

"Forgive me, Talbot," he said. "I really don't know what has come over me. If I were alone I could sleep as sound as a top, but anxiety about another is a different thing. Still, you are right, and I mean to turn the conversation to some other subject. A song, did you say?

Very well. By-the-bye, did you ever hear this?

"'Oh, Jenny Jones was a lovely gal, And her mother worked a mangle; She fell in love with a fine yonng lad, Who played on the triangle.'"

Brooke hummed this, and then stopped.

"I never heard it before," said Talbot. "Sing the rest. Now you are yourself again.

Whatever you feel, Brooke, don't speak of it, but laugh, and jest, and sing old sc.r.a.ps of songs."

"I won't," said Brooke. "I'll sing nothing more, and I'll say nothing more."

Talbot made no reply.

Brooke was true to his resolution, and said not another word. Talbot was as silent as he. Each had thoughts which were all-engrossing.

Neither spoke, but each knew perfectly well that the other was wide awake, and full of care.

Thus the night pa.s.sed away, with its long, long hours. It seemed interminable; but at length it came to an end, as all nights must, however long. The dawn came, and the two could see each other. Each sat propped up against the wall. Neither one spoke for a long time, until it was broad day, when Brooke, who had been watching Talbot's face until it grew fully revealed, broke the silence with a slight cough. Talbot turned and smiled.

"Good-morning," said Brooke. "We seem to be having quite a spell of weather. Quite a fine view from these windows. You haven't been out yet, I suppose?"

"Not yet," said Talbot.