"Why, because I don't object to smoking?" asked Miss Talbot, with a smile.
"Well, I take that as one of the many straws which show how the wind blows. But do you really mean to tell me that you don't regret what you have done?"
"What, with my hair? What a question! Regret it? Not at all. It will grow again—in time. To use your own figure, when the sailor is struggling for life against the storm, he doesn't regret the treasure that he has flung overboard so as to lighten the ship. And do you think that I am so weak as to hesitate for a moment when your safety as well as my own is concerned? For, you see, I have to remember that while I am with you, you too are in danger. So, no hesitation is possible. How could I have the heart to ask you to help me, if I persisted in keeping up any kind of dress that might endanger both of us?"
Brooke made no reply, but sat puffing out great clouds of smoke. After some lapse of time he opened his mouth to speak.
"I wish you had heavier boots," said he.
"Yes," said Miss Talbot, "my boots are my weak point. But, you see, I never anticipated a walk of twenty or thirty miles. However, my dress is long, and perhaps my feet will not be noticed."
"Oh, it isn't the fear of their being noticed, but the danger that they may give way altogether in our rough walk, and leave you barefoot among the rocks."
"Well, if I find them giving way, I shall wrap rags around them before they go to pieces altogether."
After a further silence Brooke spoke again.
"There's one thing more," said he, "that may be mentioned. We may make good our escape to-night, as I hope, but then—we may not. To provide against occurrences of all sorts, it's as well to adopt certain fixed characters and act them out. You are a priest—remember that; never forget it. You have that breviary, which you will do well to look at from time to time. There's mighty good reading in that breviary, though I'm sorry to say I never could find it; but no doubt you'll do more justice to it than I did, especially if you understand Latin, which I'm afraid you don't. But, you see, it won't do for me to call you 'Miss Talbot.' We might be captured by fellows who understand English, and they would at once take the hint. And so suppose I drop the 'Miss,' and call you simply 'Talbot?'"
"That's a very good suggestion," said Miss Talbot. "The name will be my own, and familiar, and better than any strange name or title which you might invent. Oh yes, by all means drop the 'Miss.'"
"You will understand, of course," said Brooke, anxiously, "that in this proposal there is no disrespect, no attempt at undue familiarity, no—"
"Surely, surely," said Miss Talbot, earnestly, "it's hardly necessary to say all that. If you adopt that tone, I shall have to begin and tell you how deeply grateful I am, how much I owe you, how I long to do something to—"
"Oh! well. Come, now! if you go on in that way, I am shut up at once."
He relapsed into silence. After a few minutes he spoke again.
"Talbot," said he, in a strange tone, much softer than his usual voice.
"Well?" said Miss Talbot, gently.
"As I have dropped the 'Miss,' have you any objections to drop the 'Mister,' and address me by the simple and unconventional name of 'Brooke?' You see, it's very important for us, in our circumstances, to cultivate this seeming familiarity. If you were really a young priest, and I were really your friend and travelling companion, we should address one another in this simple fashion."
"I have no objection whatever," said Miss Talbot, "and I do not see why you should take such pains to explain. It is enough for you to ask. Whatever you say I will do."
"Say 'Brooke,' then."
"Brooke," said Miss Talbot, with a little shyness.
"And now, Talbot, I intend to use your surname only in speaking to you, and I hope that you will do the same with me. This is merely for practice."
"Certainly, Brooke."
The name came a little awkwardly at first, but after a little further conversation this difficulty passed away, and the two addressed one another quite naturally in this simple fashion. And now, as Brooke has chosen this name for Miss Talbot, I also will drop the "Miss," and call her henceforth simply "Talbot."
Brooke made Talbot lie down all the rest of the day, so as to sleep, if possible, and, at any rate, to lay up a good stock of strength for the formidable work of the approaching night. With her usual considerateness and docility, Talbot obeyed; and although she did not sleep, she certainly obtained an amount of rest of which she stood in great need.
At length the evening came, and the two ate their repast, after which Brooke secreted the remainder of the provisions in the tower by way of precaution. It was not necessary, he said, to carry that load, and if they were forced to return it would be there for their use.
They started a little after sunset. An hour's walk brought them to the road, at the spot where they had first met, after which they turned toward the place where Brooke had left the train on the previous day. Their pace was a moderate one, for the whole night was before them, and Brooke was anxious to save Talbot's strength as much as possible.
For about an hour more they walked along, until they came to where the country was more open. The moon was shining brightly, and thus far there had been no signs of life. But at this point there came up sounds from the road before them which were not a little alarming. Brooke laid himself upon the ground, and listened for some time.
"People are approaching," said he. "There is quite a large crowd. They must be Carlists. It will be dangerous for us to go on any farther. It will be better to hide here until they pass."
"Very well," said Talbot. "I quite agree with you. I should hate to go back again."
There was on their right, not far from the road, an old windmill, which stood upon a gently rising ground, and was quite a conspicuous object. This caught the eye of Brooke as he looked all around.
"There," said he, "is the place for us. These fellows seem to be on the march. They will soon pass by this and be gone. Let us hide in the old mill."
Talbot at once assented. They then left the road and crossed the fields. In a short time they reached the mill. It was deserted, and the machinery was out of order, but otherwise it was in good preservation. The door was open, and they entered. Having once obtained this concealment, they stood in the door-way anxiously watching. At length they saw a crowd of men come up along the road, and these they regarded with quick-beating hearts.
"Brooke," said Talbot, in a whisper.
"What?"
"What shall we do if they come here?"
"That's a solemn question," said Brooke. "We ought to have something to fall back on. Wait."
He went away for a few minutes, and then returned. As he came back to the door Talbot pressed his arm and pointed. Brooke looked out.
To his horror the whole band had stopped, and some of them were facing toward the mill as though about to approach it.
"What a mistake we've made!" said Brooke.
"They're coming here!" said Talbot, in a thrilling whisper. "What can we do? Can we fly?"
"No," said Brooke; "they'll see us. We have only one hope. There's a ladder here, and we can climb up into the loft. Come."
Taking Talbot's hand, Brooke led her to the ladder, and they climbed up into the loft, where they sat listening.
Talbot's anticipation was too true. The band approached the mill, and soon the two fugitives heard them all around.
CHAPTER XIII. — BROOKE AND TALBOT MAKE SEVERAL NEW ACQUAINTANCES.