her
hands, but dimly understanding what was passing in his mind. Love to her
was exceedingly simple. Her creed contained but two articles, or rather
the same truth, brief, pregnant, uncontrovertible, stated in different
ways: "_If he live, I will live with him! If he die, I will die with
him!_"

So with her eyes on the oxen and her goad laid gently on this side and
that of the meek heads, Concha guided them along the silent streets.
Nevertheless, she was keenly aware of Rollo also, and observed him
closely. She did not understand what he was doing in the garb of a
friar, collecting the dead of the plague on the streets of San
Ildefonso. But it did not matter, it was sufficient that he was doing
it, and that (thank God!) she had escaped from the beleaguered palace in
time to help him. She even reminded him of his duty, without asking a
single question as to why he did it--self-abnegation passing wonderful
in a woman!

"You have forgotten to cry," she whispered, dropping back from the ox's
head. "We have passed two alleys without a warning!"

And so once more there rang down the streets of the town of San
Ildefonso that dolorous and terrible cry which was to be heard in the
dread plague-years, not only in the Iberian peninsula but also in
England and Rollo's own Scotland, "_Bring out your dead! Bring out your
dead!_"

It chanced that in the next street, the last of the little town, they
made up their full complement. The heads of the oxen were directed once
more towards the Hermitage. They turned this corner and that slowly and
decorously till, with a quickening of pace and a forward inclination of
the meek, moist nostrils, the pair struck into the woodland path towards
their stable at the Hermitage.

Not one word either of love or of reproach had Rollo spoken since those
into which he had been startled by the fear lest the girl should set
her hand upon the dead of the plague. Nor did they speak even now. Rollo
only put out his gloved hand to steady the cart here and there in the
deeper ruts, motioning Concha to remain at the head of the oxen, where
no breath of the dead might blow upon her.

Thus, no man saying them nay, they arrived at the Hermitage of San
Ildefonso. It was quiet even as they had left it.

As they came round to the front of the building, the Basque at the door
was before them. He met them on the steps, a lantern in his hand.

"Who is this?" he asked, with a significant gesture towards Concha.