"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:
"Old Bluebeard was a warrior bold,
He kept his wives in a great stronghold.
One—Two—Three—Four—Five—Six—Seven—
They all of them died and went to Heaven.
Old B. fell into a dismal state,
And went and married Number Eight."
"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.
"'There was an old man with a beard,'
"you know,
"'Who said, "It is just as I feared—
Two owls and a wren
And a cock and a hen
Have all built their nests in my beard."'
"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—
"'Old Billy Magee wore a flaxen wig,
And a beard did his face surround,
For the bailie came racing after he
With a bill for fifty pound.'
"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