erman to
his companion. Then in a moment the two slipped out of the open door
of the carriage on to the footboard and disappeared. We saw them no
more.

Don Juan and I turned at once to Brooks, who had sunk back with a groan
on the cushions.

"Are you hurt, my poor man," asked the Don; "have they stabbed you?"

"Yes, sir," he answered faintly, with his hand to his side. "They've
about done for me, but I'm glad I die fighting like a British soldier
should. I'm glad I've wiped the old score out by saving my master and
you, sir."

When a quarter of an hour later the train ran into Paddington poor
Brooks lay back in a corner with set white face. He had had his wish;
he had died like a British soldier.

CHAPTER XX

THE DEPARTURE OF THE DUKE

As Dolores and I had both anticipated, the result of her interview with
her father on the subject of her affections was entirely satisfactory
to us both. The Don expressed himself satisfied, too, with the
consultation, and gave us his blessing in the good old-fashioned way
still in vogue in Aquazilia, or at any rate among the adherents of the
old monarchy. We knelt at his feet to receive it. The result was a
paragraph in the _Morning Post_, as follows:--

"A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place, between
William Frederick, only son of the late Sir Henry and Lady Mary
Anstruther, and Dolores, only daughter of Don Juan d'Alta, for some
years Prime Minister of the late Queen Inez of Aquazilia."

This announcement brought us a shower of congratulations and inquiries
as to the date of the wedding.

That query I naturally left to Dolores to answer, and at my earnest
solicitation she very considerately decided, having in view my intense
impatience in the matter, that the paternal assent--with
blessing---having been given in the month of February, we should be
married in April.

Yes, absolutely _married_! The idea took me greatly by surprise at
first. I used to wake in the morning, and the thought would in a
manner sweetly confront me. It was as if a little mischievous Cupid
sat on the end rail of my bed and revelled in his work.

"William Frederick," he seemed to say, "you're going to be married.
You're going to marry Dolores. What do you think of it?"

I _did_ think a great deal of it, and the thought to me was ecstasy.

I often used to wonder, as I contemplated in my mind's eye this little
wicked Cupid sitting on my bed, whether he we