"Just as soon as I have broken my fast," said Beauvallet. "See that door well-shut. Now, rogue, give ear a minute." He drank some wine, and broke off a piece of rye bread. "I am become overnight the Chevalier Claude de Guise, do ye mark me?" "Well, master. I said we might turn all to good account." "The best. I don't fathom all these papers, and one is sealed fast. But enough to serve, I judge. Matters too high for you, but ye may know that we travel henceforth as a secret messenger from the Guise to King Philip. Hey, but I have meat for Walsingham in this!" He stretched, and reached out a hand for his shirt. "A great venture, rogue--the greatest I have been on." "Like to end in nasty wise," Joshua grumbled. "Secret messengers, forsooth! Ay, we shall be so secret there's none will hear of us again." "An ill jest. This as mad a quest as I have ever known. Does your courage fail? Turn back then, you have still time." Joshua threw out his chest. "Ho, pretty speaking! I follow to the end. Moreover, it has been foretold that I shall die in my bed. What have I to fear?" "On then," said Sir Nicholas, and laughed. "On, and reck not!" CHAPTER IX It was an easy matter to cross the Frontier, armed with the Chevalier de Guise's credentials. From as much of the despatch to Philip as he could read, or was not sealed, Beauvallet had learned that the youthful Frenchman was some sort of a cousin to the Duc de Guise, and it seemed probable from so particular a mention of him that he had not been employed on an errand into Spain before. Beauvallet did not doubt that he could brave out the imposture, but he knew that he carried his life in his hand. One evil chance, one Frenchman in Madrid to whom the Chevalier was known, and he might expect to find himself sped. The knowledge made him set his horse caracolling on the road, never so keenly enjoying life as when he stood in danger of losing it. He tossed his sword up in the air, and caught it deftly as it fell. The sunlight glinted all along the shimmering blade. Between eight crowns the name Andrea Ferrara was inscribed, and beneath it a pungent motto:--_My bite is sure_. "A sword and my wits against all Spain!" sang out Beauvallet, and whistled a catch between his teeth. Then he fell to thinking of her whom he went to seek, and the leagues passed uncounted. There was time enough for meditation during these long days upon the road, for it took them close on two weeks to come within sight of Madrid, a white town perched on a spur above a vast plateau, looking north over many windy leagues to the Guadarrama Mountains, and south to the grand chain that guarded Toledo.