ill save
the Queen and the little Princess!"

"And the fair maid Dona Concha?" said Cabrera, mockingly. "What would
she say to such an act of self-sacrifice?"

"She would rejoice to see me do my duty, General!" said Rollo, with
confidence.

Cabrera laughed long, loud, and scornfully.

"Not by a thousand leagues!" he cried, "not if I know a maiden of
Spain--to save another woman! No, no; go out of this tent in safety, Don
Rollo. I like a man who has no fear. And indeed great need have you of
the fear of God, for, when a man dares thus to beard Ramon Cabrera, the
fear of man is not in him. Go out, I say, and give thanks to any god you
heathen Scots may worship. But do not come hither a second time to prate
of mercy and innocence, and 'those who never did me any harm.' See here,
_hombre_----"

Rollo was about to speak, but Cabrera suddenly rose to his feet,
steadied himself a moment upon the tent pole, and lifted from a stool a
small tin case like a much battered despatch box. Opening it, he
revealed another casket within. He unlocked that, and drawing out a long
grey tress of woman's hair he put it to his lips.

"The hatred of men has been mine," he cried fiercely, "aye, ever since I
was twelve years old has my knife kept my head. But through all one
woman has loved me--and only one. See that! 'Tis my mother's hair, which
the butcher officers of the woman Cristina sent me in mockery, warm and
clotted from the shambles of the Barbican. Touch it, cold man of the
north! Aye, let it stream through your fingers like a love token, and
say--what would you do to those who sent you that?"

Again he kissed the long grey tresses passionately, ere he laid them in
Rollo's hand.

"Your mother's hair, wet with your mother's blood!" he cried, "a pretty
talisman to make a man merciful! '_Never harmed me_,' did I hear you
say? Answer me now! What harm had my poor mother done them? Answer me!
Answer me, I say. You Scots know the law. They say you read the Bible.
'An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth!' So I have heard the
clerics yelp. Is it not true? Well, for each hair you hold in your hand
will I exact a life, queen or consort, maid or babe, what care I? Have
you any more to say? No? Then give it back to me!"

With these final words he raised his voice to a shout, and threw himself
on the bed in a passion of tears, with the tress of long grey hair
pressed to his face.

And Rollo went out, having indeed no words wherewit