IN WHICH BROOKE AND TALBOT STAND FACE TO FACE WITH DEATH.
This was to be to Brooke his last day in life. The thought of this was ever present to both of them. The band would probably return during the night, and in the morning the last scene would be enacted.
In the few days in which these two had known each other they had been compelled to undergo great variations of feeling, and had come to learn each other"s inmost nature more thoroughly and intimately by far than could have occurred after years of ordinary social intercourse. Together they had faced danger and death; together they had endured hope and fear, hunger and weariness, sorrow and despair.
The feelings of each had been stirred to the uttermost depth. Strong natures were they, both of them; and they both were capable of self-control, and they each knew how to wear an aspect of calmness while all the time the soul within was in a tumult of terror or distress. This night was to be the last on earth to one of them, perhaps to both. So they said but little. They could but sit in silence, and think, and feel, and suffer.
At midnight there was a wild clamor outside. The band had returned.
The prisoners went to the window, and there, standing side by side, they looked out. Brooke thought that his hour might even now be at hand, and the same fear occurred to Talbot. Neither spoke. So for a long time they stood watching, listening, until at last the sounds died away, all movement ceased, and all was still. The men had gone to rest, and they now knew that there would be a respite until morning. They stood looking out into the night. If a thought of flight had ever occurred to either of them, they could now see that such a thing was impossible. For they were environed with guards; and in the room below and on the gra.s.s outside the followers of Lopez lay between them and liberty.
"Brooke," said Talbot, "if you were now alone I know very well what you would do."
"What?"
"You would draw your revolver, jump down, burst through the midst of these men, and escape. Why not do so now?"
Brooke gave a short laugh.
"Do? Leave me! Fly! They cannot blame me if you fight your way through them. Better to die fighting than be shot down helplessly."
"If I did so, they"d take out their vengeance on you."
"They would not."
"They would."
"Then you stay for me!"
"Yes."
Talbot drew a long breath.
"You are bent on dying, Brooke, not to save me, but merely to prevent them from being too hard to me."
"They will let you go," said Brooke. "They will be satisfied--when I am gone."
Talbot seized his hands in a convulsive grasp.
"Oh, Brooke!" she groaned. "Can nothing move you? What is life worth to me at such a cost? Oh, Brooke, fly! Leave me. Fight your way out.
I will follow you."
"You cannot. If you tried, you would be sure to be captured. I might escape as you say, but you could not."
"Oh, Brooke, try--fly! Oh, I could kill myself rather than endure this any longer."
"Talbot!" said Brooke, suddenly shaking her off.
"What, Brooke?"
"You"re a fool!"
"Yes, Brooke."
"You"re a fool!" he repeated, in a voice that sounded like a gasp.
"Why will you persist in talking in this way, and blight and shatter all my strength of soul? It"s too late, I tell you. I will not. I will not do anything that can expose you to fresh danger; your peril is great enough now, but there is a bare chance for you if nothing happens. When they have got one life they may feel inclined to spare the other."
"Never!" said Talbot. "They shall not. I will not have it."
"You must!" said Brooke, fiercely.
"I tell you I will not!" cried Talbot, in a pa.s.sionate voice.
"D--n you!" roared Brooke. "I tell you you must, and you shall!"
At this there was a noise below. Some of the guard had awakened.
Brooke drew a long breath, and retreated from the window into the darkness. Talbot went after him.
"Talbot," said Brooke, in a voice that was strangely sweet yet unutterably sad--"Talbot, do you want to break my heart?"
"Brooke," said Talbot, in a low, thrilling tone. "Is it your heart only, do you think, that is now almost breaking?"
After this there was a deep silence, broken only by their own quick breathing.
Brooke felt a hand in his. He caught it in a convulsive grasp; and the two hands clung to each other, and throbbed with the vehement pulsations of two hearts that now beat with intensest feeling.
"Let me go," wailed Brooke, at last, s.n.a.t.c.hing his hand away. He gasped for breath. He retreated farther into the darkness. Talbot stood motionless and trembling. There was silence again for a long time. It was at last broken by Brooke.
"Come, Talbot," he said, with feverish rapidity and a wretched a.s.sumption of carelessness. "Let"s engage in conversation. What shall we talk about? The weather? Or the crops? Or shall we talk politics?
By-the-bye, can"t you sing something? I tell you what--it isn"t fair.
You make me do all the singing. But I don"t mind. You"re a good listener, at any rate. If you like I"ll sing a hymn."
And he began, singing through his nose:
"Oh, a maiden she lived in the south countrie, And a werry fine maid, my boy, was she, For her hair was as red as red can be; So off we go to Marymashee.
And a jolly young cove fell in love with she, Says he, "My la.s.s, will you marry me?"
One foot up and t"other foot down, And away we travel to London town."
Again there was a sound below. Brooke"s song had roused the guard.
Talbot gave a wild start.
"They"re coming!" she gasped, in a tone of horror. "They"re coming--at last. They won"t wait!"