"Yes, Señor, dear master, I swear it. I will watch over the señorita as long as I have life; I swear it. None shall ever know except the señor Ingles. In the garden—the old—" His voice was dying away again into a whisper; the afrancesado bent eagerly over him to catch the feeble tones, and when he rose a look of mingled greed and malignant triumph shone in his eyes. He waited for a while longer, while the sick man continued to babble in the same strain, his voice occasionally rising so that it could plainly be heard by the sufferers in the neighbouring beds. Murmurs arose, and, helpless as they were, their mutterings struck the heart of the afrancesado with a cold chill of dread. Rising, and throwing one hurried backward glance at the now silent figure on the bed, he hastened from the room, pursued by the vengeful glance of all who were conscious enough to recognize him. An hour later the sick man opened his eyes and looked around, as though fearing to meet once more the traitor’s malign glance. "What is that you were saying about a promise, and a garden, and a señorita?" whispered the prisoner in the next bed. "Saying! When?" he asked with a note of mortal anguish. "Just now, when the vile afrancesado was with you. Have you forgotten?" The man waited a moment, expecting a reply. None came; the man had fainted. The afrancesado did not leave Bayonne that night as he intended. Stricken with the prison fever, he took to his bed, and there lay for several weeks, tended with unstinted care by his one-eyed servant. When he recovered from his delirium he was eager to set out, as soon as his strength permitted, on his return journey to Spain, and was amazed to hear from the French commandant that he must consider himself a prisoner. "Nonsense!" he said; "la prisoner! What have you against me?" "The prisoner you talked with in the sick ward, monsieur—" "Is he dead?" asked Miguel eagerly. "He may be, but his body has not been recovered. His health rapidly mended from the day of your interview with him, and ten days ago he escaped by swimming the Adour—a marvellous feat for a man in his condition." "Escaped!" screamed Miguel, starting up. "I must go, I must go at once, before it is too late!" "Then you did not arrange the escape, monsieur?" said the Frenchman, surprised at the other’s violence. "Arrange it! Am I a fool? Am I mad? Arrange the escape of my worst enemy! I must go! He has gone to rob me; he will ruin me; I must go, before it is too late!" His agitation was so sincere that, after a consultation among the French officers, the afrancesado was permitted, a few days later, to depart with his servant, and they rode southward out of Bayonne at a furious pace, the stones clattering, the dust flying behind, and all who saw them staring after them in amazement. *CHAPTER XXXIII* *Palafox the Name*