"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.