“And as I shall let no other life but ours be periled in this affair,” he went on quietly, “and will accompany you myself in some disguise beyond the lines, we will together take the risks—­or the bullets of the sentries that may save us both all further trouble.  An hour or two more will settle that.  Until then your weak condition will excuse you from any disturbance or intrusion here.  The mulatto woman you have sometimes personated may be still in this house; I will appoint her to attend you.  I suppose you can trust her, for you must personate her again, and escape in her clothes, while she takes your place in this room as my prisoner.”

“Clarence!”

Her voice had changed suddenly; it was no longer bitter and stridulous, but low and thrilling as he had heard her call to him that night in the patio of Robles.  He turned quickly.  She was leaning from the bed—­her thin, white hands stretched appealingly towards him.

“Let us go together, Clarence,” she said eagerly.  “Let us leave this horrible place—­these wicked, cruel people—­forever.  Come with me!  Come with me to my people—­to my own faith—­to my own house—­which shall be yours!  Come with me to defend it with your good sword, Clarence, against those vile invaders with whom you have nothing in common, and who are the dirt under your feet.  Yes, yes!  I know it!—­I have done you wrong—­I have lied to you when I spoke against your skill and power.  You are a hero—­a born leader of men!  I know it!  Have I not heard it from the men who have fought against you, and yet admired and understood you, ay, better than your own?—­gallant men, Clarence, soldiers bred who did not know what you were to me nor how proud I was of you even while I hated you?  Come with me!  Think what we would do together—­with one faith—­one cause—­one ambition!  Think, Clarence, there is no limit you might not attain!  We are no niggards of our rewards and honors—­we have no hireling votes to truckle to—­we know our friends!  Even I—­Clarence—­I”—­there was a strange pathos in the sudden humility that seemed to overcome her—­“I have had my reward and known my power.  I have been sent abroad, in the confidence of the highest—­to the highest.  Don’t turn from me.  I am offering you no bribe, Clarence, only your deserts.  Come with me.  Leave these curs behind, and live the hero that you are!”

He turned his blazing eyes upon her.

“If you were a man”—­he began passionately, then stopped.

“No!  I am only a woman and must fight in a woman’s way,” she interrupted bitterly.  “Yes!  I intreat, I implore, I wheedle, I flatter, I fawn, I lie!  I creep where you stand upright, and pass through doors to which you would not bow.  You wear your blazon of honor on your shoulder; I hide mine in a slave’s gown.  And yet I have worked and striven and suffered!  Listen, Clarence,” her voice again sank to its appealing minor,—­“I know what you men call ‘honor,’ that which makes you