That night I had but little sleep.

About an hour after midnight there was a great stir in the house and the sound of opening doors and hurrying footsteps. The unwonted noises terrified me. I leaned against the door, with a heart beating thickly, and I listened. What evil tidings did those sounds portend? There was a loud outcry in a woman's voice,—the voice of DoÑa Orosia.

I felt that I must know what havoc Fate had wrought in the last hours. I looked at Barbara—she slumbered peacefully on her hard pallet; the moonlight, streaming through the barred window, showed me her withered face relaxed in almost childlike peacefulness. I would not rouse her,—'twas a blessed thing to sleep and forget; but I dared not sleep, for I knew not what would be the horror of my waking. With my cheek pressed close against the door I waited a moment longer. Perhaps only those planks intervened 'twixt me and my life's tragedy!

I laid my hand upon the latch. I feared to know the truth,—and yet, if I did not hear it, I must die of dread. Slowly I turned the key and raised the bars: the door swung open.

I stepped out upon the balcony that overhung the court and I looked over. There was no one in sight; the white moonlight lay over everything, and a strong perfume floated up from the flowers in the garden beyond.

I crept down the stair and stood still in the centre of the empty court. Voices sounded near me, but I knew not whence they came. Trembling still, I moved toward the passage that led to the outer door, and I saw that it was bright as day. The door stood ajar. Those who had last gone out had been strangely forgetful—or greatly agitated.

Scarce knowing what I did, I crossed the threshold and hurried down the street in the direction of the fort.

A group of three men stood upon the corner. At the sight of them I paused and hid in the shadow of the wall; but, one of them turning his face toward me, I recognized Captain Baulk, and, going quickly forward, I laid my hand upon his arm.

"How is he? Where have they taken him?" I whispered.

"What! is't Mistress Tudor? Have they turned you adrift, then? Lor', 'tis a frail craft to be out o' harbour such foul weather!"

"How is he?" I repeated, tightening my grasp upon his sleeve.

"Dead as a pickled herring, poor lad!"

My head struck heavily against the wall as I fell, but I made no outcry.

"Sink me! but the poor lassie thought I meant Mr. Rivers!" I heard the old sailor exclaim as he dropped on his knees beside me,—and the words stayed my failing senses.

"Whom did you mean?" I gasped.

"Young Poole has been done to death, Mistress Margaret. As honest a lad as ever lived, too,—more's the pity!"

I struggled to raise myself, crying: "What do you tell me? Have they killed the lad in pure spite against his master? And where is Mr. Rivers?"

They made me no answer.

"He is dead, then! I knew it, my heart told me so!"

"Eh! poor lass! 'Tis not so bad as that—yet bad enough. They've hung chains enough upon him to anchor a man-o'-war, and moored him fast in the dungeon of the fort. D—n 'em for a crew o' dastard furriners!—an' he own cousin to an English earl!"

"Can you not tell me a straight tale?" I cried. "What has he done to be so ill served? And whose the enmity behind it all,—Melinza's, or the Governor's?"

"Lor'!" exclaimed one of the sailors, "the young Don is past revenge, mistress. If he lives out the night 'tis more than I look to see."

"Here, now, let me tell the tale, lad," the old captain interposed. "'Twas a duel began it, Mistress Tudor. The young bloods were so keen after fighting they could not wait for sunrise, but must needs have it out by moonlight on the beach. 'Twas over yonder, in the lee of the castle walls."

"Mr. Rivers and Don Pedro?"

"Aye, mistress. The Governor was not by,—'tis likely he knew naught of it."

"Not so!" I cried, "he had his share in the quarrel, and they left the house in company."

"Mayhap," said Captain Baulk, "I'd not gainsay it—for I trust no one o' them; but he chose to go with his weather eye shut rather than take precaution 'gainst the squall. So they had it out all by their selves,—and none of us a whit the wiser, saving young Poole, who had guessed somewhat was amiss and followed his master."

"What then? Speak quickly! Was Mr. Rivers wounded?"

"Not he! That's to say, not by any thrust of the Don's. Lor', but it must ha' been a pretty fight! Pity no man saw it that lives to tell!"

"In the name of mercy, sir, speak plainly!"

"Aye, my young mistress, but give me time an' I will. Mr. Rivers ere long did get in such a thrust that the Don went down before it as suddenly as a ship with all her hull stove in. He lay stranded, with the blood flowing away in a dark stream over the white sands. Our young gentleman, gallant heart, did throw away his sword and fall down beside the Spaniard and strive to staunch his wounds, crying aloud most lustily for aid. Who should hear him but young Poole and that yellow devil of a Tomas! They came from opposite quarters, and Poole was in the shadow, so the other saw him not. The mulatto ran up alongside, and, seeing 'twas the Don who had fallen, he whipped out a knife from his belt and struck at our young master as he knelt there on the ground. Nay, now, do not take on so! Did I not say he was but little hurt? Had the blow struck him fairly in the back, as it was meant to do, doubtless it would have put an end to him; but Poole was to the rescue, poor lad! He threw himself on the mulatto in the nick o' time. The knife had barely grazed Mr. Rivers on the shoulder; but young Tomas never let go his hold of it. He and the faithful lad rolled together on the ground—and Poole never rose again. His body was stabbed through in a dozen places. Mr. Rivers had no time to interfere; ere he could rise from his knees, or even put out a hand to take his sword, a dozen soldiers had laid hands on him. That devil of a Tomas finished his evil work, and then picked himself up and walked away; never a one laid a finger on him or cried shame on the foul deed!"

The old sailor paused, and each man of the group breathed a curse through his clinched teeth.

"They have taken Mr. Rivers to the dungeon of the fort?" I whispered.

"Aye, so they tell us. None of us were there, which is perhaps for the good of our necks,—yet I would we had had a chance to strike a blow in defence of the poor lad."

"And the Spaniard—Don Pedro?"

"They carried him into the Governor's own house a while since. I think his wound is mortal."

"Then he has brought his death upon himself, for he forced Mr. Rivers into the quarrel," I declared hastily.

"'Twas bound to come," admitted Captain Baulk, "there has been bad blood between them from the very first. But what are we to do with you, mistress? Did they put you out in anger?"

"Nay," I exclaimed, "I heard a great disturbance and hastened out to seek the cause. The outer door was left unbarred."

"Why then, mistress, we would best make for it again before 'tis shut! This is no hour and no place for a young maid to be out alone." Taking me by the hand he led me back the way I had come; but we were too late. The entrance was closed and barred against us.

"Now, what's to do?" exclaimed the old sailor in dismay.

I had been too crushed and dazed by the ill news to think before of my imprudence; but now I realized how very unwisely I had acted. I turned hastily to the old captain.

"Go and leave me, my good friend," I said. "Already there has been enough trouble of my making. Do not let me have to answer for more. I will wait here and call for some one to open for me. 'Tis better for me to say what is the truth—that I wandered out in my anxiety. Go, I pray you, and be discrete in your conduct, that they may have no just cause to imprison you also."

He saw the wisdom of it and went away out of sight, while I beat with all my might upon the door.

In a moment steps sounded within, the bars fell, and the door was drawn back. It was the Governor himself who stood there. He looked at me in astonishment as he drew aside for me to pass.

I attempted no explanation; for I knew he could not understand me. Doubtless he would tell his lady and she would hold me to account. Slowly I mounted to the balcony above and pushed open the door of my chamber.

The dame still slept peacefully. I went softly to the window and knelt down. My heart was sick for the faithful lad who had died in defending Mr. Rivers. Poor boy! He had no mother—I wonder if there was a little lass anywhere whom he loved? But no, he was young for that. I think his love was all his master's. And to die for those whom we love best is not so sad a fate as to live for their undoing!

The hot tears ran down my face. I leaned my cheek against the bars and set free my thoughts, which flew, as swift as homing pigeons, to my dear love in his dungeon cell.

Oh! I would that all the prayers I pray, and all the tender thoughts I think of him, had wings in very truth; and that after they had flown heavenward they might bear thence some balm, some essence of divinest pity, to cheer him in his loneliness! If it were so, then there would be in never-ending flight, up from the barred window where I kneel, and downward to the narrow slit in his prison wall, two shining lines of fluttering white wings coming and going all these long nights through!