ees on
the floor, wailing for their lost mother, and imploring his blessing in
alternate breaths.

"Our mother--our dear mother!" they cried, "pray for us and her, most
holy father!"

"God in heaven bless you," Rollo said aloud in English, and strode down
the stairs. A knot of straggling gipsies furtively expectant stood about
the door. The cart was still in the middle of the street with its
attendant boy, in the exact place where Rollo had left it.

"Here, lend me a hand," he cried in a voice of command, as he emerged
into their midst with his white-wrapped burden.

But at the mere sight of the monk's habit and of the thing he carried on
his shoulder, the gipsies dispersed, running in every direction as if
the very plague-spectre were on their track. The boy in the red cap,
however, crossed the road towards him, and at the same moment the elder
of the little girls sobbingly opened the lattice, holding the candle in
her hand to take a last look at her mother.

The feeble rays fell directly on the boy's upturned face. At the sight
Rollo stumbled and almost fell with his burden. The youth put out his
hand to stay him. His fingers almost touched the dead.

"Hands off!" thundered Rollo, in fierce anger. "Concha Cabezos, how dare
you come hither?"

The boy looked up at the man and answered simply and clearly--

"Rollo, I came because _you_ dared!"

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE DEAD STAND SENTINEL

They walked on for a while in silence, Rollo too much thunderstruck and
confounded to speak a word. His whole being was rent with the most
opposite feelings. He was certainly angry with Concha. So much was clear
to him. It was rash, it was unmaidenly to follow him at such a time and
in such a guise. Yet, after all the girl had come. She was risking a
terrible death for his sake. Well, what of that? It was right and
natural that he should hold his life in his hands. All his life he had
loved adventure as men their daily bread--not passionately, but as a
necessity of existence.

But this--it was too great for him, too mighty, too surprising. For his
sake! Because he dared! All the girls to whom he had made love--ay,
even Peggy Ramsay herself, running barefoot in the braes of
Falkland--instantly vanished. Life or death became no great
matter--almost, as it seemed to him then, the same thing. For here was
one who held all the world as well lost for him.

Meanwhile Concha walked silently alongside, the ox-staff still in