"I a.s.sure you that is the last way in which I desire to treat you. But if you insist--"

"I do." She had frowned slightly at the earlier part of his speech, with its subtle, half-jesting gallantry, and she spoke sharply now.

"I bow to your will," said Captain Tremayne.

"What has d.i.c.k Butler been doing?"

He looked into her face with sharply questioning eyes.

"What was it that happened at Tavora?"

He continued to look at her. "What have you heard?" he asked at last.

"Only that he has done something at Tavora for which the consequences, I gather, may be grave. I am anxious for Una's sake to know what it is."

"Does Una know?"

"She is being told now. Count Samoval let slip just what I have outlined. And she has insisted upon being told everything."

"Then why did you not remain to hear?"

"Because they sent me away on the plea that--oh, on the silly plea of my youth and innocence, which were not to be offended."

"But which you expect me to offend?"

"No. Because I can trust you to tell me without offending."

"Sylvia!" It was a curious exclamation of satisfaction and of grat.i.tude for the implied confidence. We must admit that it betrayed a selfish forgetfulness of d.i.c.k Butler and his troubles, but it is by no means clear that it was upon such grounds that it offended her.

She stiffened perceptibly. "Really, Captain Tremayne!"

"I beg your pardon," said he. "But you seemed to imply--" He checked, at a loss.

Her colour rose. "Well, sir? What do you suggest that I implied or seemed to imply?" But as suddenly her manner changed. "I think we are too concerned with trifles where the matter on which I have sought you is a serious one."

"It is of the utmost seriousness," he admitted gravely.

"Won't you tell me what it is?"

He told her quite simply the whole story, not forgetting to give prominence to the circ.u.mstances extenuating it in Butler's favour. She listened with a deepening frown, rather pale, her head bowed.

"And when he is taken," she asked, "what--what will happen to him?"

"Let us hope that he will not be taken."

"But if he is--if he is?" she insisted almost impatiently.

Captain Tremayne turned aside and looked out of the window. "I should welcome the news that he is dead," he said softly. "For if he is taken he will find no mercy at the hands of his own people."

"You mean that he will be shot?" Horror charged her voice, dilated her eyes.

"Inevitably."

A shudder ran through her, and she covered her face with her hands. When she withdrew then Tremayne beheld the lovely countenance transformed. It was white and drawn.

"But surely Terence can save him!" she cried piteously.

He shook his head, his lips tight pressed. "'There is no man less able to do so."

"What do you mean? Why do you say that?"

He looked at her, hesitating for a moment, then answered her: "'O'Moy has pledged his word to the Portuguese Government that d.i.c.k Butler shall be shot when taken."

"Terence did that?"

"He was compelled to it. Honour and duty demanded no less of him. I alone, who was present and witnessed the undertaking, know what it cost him and what he suffered. But he was forced to sink all private considerations. It was a sacrifice rendered necessary, inevitable for the success of this campaign." And he proceeded to explain to her all the circ.u.mstances that were interwoven with Lieutenant Butler's ill-timed offence. "Thus you see that from Terence you can hope for nothing. His honour will not admit of his wavering in this matter."

"Honour?" She uttered the word almost with contempt. "And what of Una?"

"I was thinking of Una when I said I should welcome the news of d.i.c.k's death somewhere in the hills. It is the best that can be hoped for."

"I thought you were d.i.c.k's friend, Captain Tremayne."

"Why, so I have been; so I am. Perhaps that is another reason why I should hope that he is dead."

"Is it no reason why you should do what you can to save him?"

He looked at her steadily for an instant, calm under the reproach of her eyes.

"Believe me, Miss Armytage, if I saw a way to save him, to do anything to help him, I should seize it, both for the sake of my friendship for himself and because of my affection for Una. Since you yourself are interested in him, that is an added reason for me. But it is one thing to admit willingness to help and another thing actually to afford help.

What is there that I can do? I a.s.sure you that I have thought of the matter. Indeed for days I have thought of little else. But I can see no light. I await events. Perhaps a chance may come."

Her expression had softened. "I see." She put out a hand generously to ask forgiveness. "I was presumptuous, and I had no right to speak as I did."

He took the hand. "I should never question your right to speak to me in any way that seemed good to you," he a.s.sured her.

"I had better go to Una. She will be needing me, poor child. I am grateful to you, Captain Tremayne, for your confidence and for telling me." And thus she left him very thoughtful, as concerned for Una as she was herself.

Now Una O'Moy was the natural product of such treatment. There had ever been something so appealing in her lovely helplessness and fragility that all her life others had been concerned to shelter her from every wind that blew. Because it was so she was what she was; and because she was what she was it would continue to be so.

But Lady O'Moy at the moment did not stand in such urgent need of Miss Armytage as Miss Armytage imagined. She had heard the appalling story of her brother's escapade, but she had been unable to perceive in what it was so terrible as it was declared. He had made a mistake. He had invaded the convent under a misapprehension, for which it was ridiculous to blame him. It was a mistake which any man might have made in a foreign country. Lives had been lost, it is true; but that was owing to the stupidity of other people--of the nuns who had run for shelter when no danger threatened save in their own silly imaginations, and of the peasants who had come blundering to their a.s.sistance where no a.s.sistance was required; the latter were the people responsible for the bloodshed, since they had attacked the dragoons. Could it be expected of the dragoons that they should tamely suffer themselves to be ma.s.sacred?

Thus Lady O'Moy upon the affair of Tavora. The whole thing appeared to her to be rather silly, and she refused seriously to consider that it could have any grave consequences for d.i.c.k. His continued absence made her anxious. But if he should come to be taken, surely his punishment would be merely a formal matter; at the worst he might be sent home, which would be a very good thing, for after all the climate of the Peninsula had never quite suited him.

In this fashion she nimbly pursued a train of vitiated logic, pa.s.sing from inconsequence to inconsequence. And O'Moy, thankful that she should take such a view as this--mercifully hopeful that the last had been heard of his peccant and vexatious brother-in-law--content, more than content, to leave her comforted such illusions.

And then, while she was still discussing the matter in terms of comparative calm, came an orderly to summon him away, so that he left her in the company of Samoval.