"True, Brooke, very true!" said Talbot; "but don't you see how different this thing is? Here is a party of travellers captured by brigands, and held to ransom. You are merely asked to show the way to their prison, so that they may be set free by their friends. What betrayal of confidence is there in this?" "I say that in any way in which I tell one of these parties about the doings of the other, I betray the confidence which has been placed in me." "And I say, Brooke, that if you leave these English ladies in the hands of merciless villains to languish in captivity, to suffer torment, and perhaps to die a cruel death, you will be guilty of an unpardonable sin--an offence so foul that it will haunt your last hours!" "No woman," said Brooke, "can understand a man's sense of honor." "Sir," said Talbot, with indescribable haughtiness, "you forget my name. Trust me, sir, no Talbot ever lived who failed one jot or tittle in the extremest demand of honor. I, sir, am a Talbot, and have no need to go to you for information on points of honor. More than this, I say that you are utterly wrong; and that if you leave those English ladies in the hands of these Spanish miscreants you will do foul offence, not only to the honor of a gentleman, but even to the instincts of humanity." "Forgive me, Talbot," said Brooke, meekly. "I don't mean what you think. When I spoke of a man's sense of honor, I referred to his life of action, with all its conflict of duty and honor, and all those complicated motives of which a woman in her retirement can know nothing." "Believe me, Brooke," said Talbot, earnestly, "women who are lookers-on are often better and safer judges than men who are in the midst of action. Trust me, and take my advice in this matter. What! is it possible that you can have the heart to leave these English ladies to a fate of horror among brigands?"