CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH BROOKE AND TALBOT BEGIN TO GROW VERY WELL ACQUAINTED. Brooke's heart sank within him as, followed by Talbot, he once more entered the old mill. He knew perfectly well that his position was one of peril, and doubly so from the part which he had been playing. The jeering laugh of these merciless soldiers kept ringing in his ears; the sneers of Lopez and his bitter taunts could not be forgotten. His disguise was no longer of any value either to himself or to Talbot; his true character, when declared, seemed even worse in the eyes of these men than his assumed one had been. To them a Carlist was far from being so bad as a newspaper correspondent; for while the one was an open enemy, the other was a secret foe, a traitor, and a spy. Moreover, in addition to this, there was the fact that he was an American, which, instead of disarming their rage, had only intensified it. These men called themselves Republicans, but they were Spaniards also; and Spaniards hate Americans. They cannot forgive the great republic for its overshadowing power which menaces them in the New World, and for the mighty attraction which it exercises upon disaffected Cubans. Great though his own danger might be, it was not, however, for himself that Brooke feared. It was for Talbot. Trusting herself implicitly to his care and guidance, she had assumed this attire. Among the Carlists, it would have been the best of protections and the safest of disguises. Among Republicans, it was the worst of garbs. For many of the Spanish Republicans were full of French communistic sentiments, and were ready to wage war with all priests, and ecclesiasts of all forms of religion. What could save Talbot from their murderous hands? It was too late now for her to go back. She must remain a priest, since to reveal herself in her true character would be to rush on to certain destruction. As a priest, however, she was exposed to inevitable danger; she must brave all perils; and to Brooke there seemed not one ray of hope for her safety. They went back to the loft, and here they remained in silence for some time. At length Brooke spoke. "Talbot!" "Well, Brooke." "Give me your hand." The slender hand of Talbot stole into his. It was as cold as ice. "Talbot!" said Brooke, in a tremulous voice, holding her hand in a firm grasp. "Well, Brooke." "Do you understand the danger we are in?" "Yes, Brooke." "Do you forgive me for my share in bringing you into it?" "Brooke," said Talbot, reproachfully, "such a question is ungenerous. I am the only cause of your present danger. If you had been alone, without such a fatal incubus as me, you might easily have escaped; or, rather, you would never have fallen into danger. Oh, I know--I know only too well, that you have thrown away your life--or, rather, risked it--to save me." As Talbot ended, her voice died away in scarce audible tones, which were full of indescribable pathos. Brooke gave a short laugh, as usual.