"I know of only one lion, sirrah, and that one is not to be found in Spain!" Beauvallet said. "I am bound on the morrow for the Alcazar. Lay me out a rich suit of the French cut." He brought out the stolen papers from his bosom, and laid them on the table. "And stitch me these safe in a length of silk." His eyes twinkled. "What, do you tremble still? Cross yourself, and say Jesu! It's in the part." Access to the Alcazar was not found to be so easy as access to any of Queen Elizabeth's palaces. There was a long delay, many questions, and the pseudo-Chevalier's credentials were taken from him while he was left to cool his heels in the great austere hall. He sat down on a carved chair of cypress wood, and looked about him with interest. There was much sombre marble, much rich brocade, and hangings of Flanders tapestry depicting the martyrdoms of various saints. A statue in bronze stood at the foot of the wide stairway; there were Turkey carpets on the floor, strange sight to an English eye, so that footsteps fell muffled. Certain, there was no sound in the Alcazar. Lackeys stood graven on either side the great door; sundry personages passed across the hall from time to time, but they spoke no word. There was a courtier, all in silk and velvet; a soberly clad individual whom Beauvallet took to be a secretary; a priest of the Dominican order with his cowl shading his face, and his hands hidden in the wide sleeves of his habit; an elderly man who looked curiously at Beauvallet; an officer of the guard, a hurrying woman who might be a maid of honour. It was oppressive in the lofty hall; the very hush of the place might have preyed on nerves less hardy than Beauvallet's. Here, to an Englishman, was a place of grim foreboding, of lurking terror. It did not need the sight of that dark priest to conjure up hideous pictures to the mind. But Sir Nicholas saw no hideous pictures, and his pulse beat as steadily as ever. A false step, and he would never again see England: with a kind of brazen dare-devilry he was confident there would be no false step. In Paris, a month ago, the Marquis de Belrémy had said aghast:--"_Mon Dieu, quel sang-froid!_" Could he have set eyes on his kinsman now he would have been still more aghast, and might have repeated with even more conviction, that Nicholas would sit jesting in hell's mouth itself. After a full half-hour's wait the lackey came back with a long-gowned, close shaven secretary who looked keenly at Beauvallet. "You are the Chevalier de Guise?" he asked in French. Sir Nicholas was swinging his golden pomander. He did not think, from his knowledge of them, that the Guise would rise out of their seats for a mere scrivener. Gravely he bowed his head. "You have letters for his Majesty?" pursued the secretary.