“Sir Officer, the señor is an Englishman, and does not speak your language well—” “He uses his sword well, anyhow,” interrupted the captain, glancing at the dead soldier’s cloven helm and head. “Yes, Sir, he is of your trade and, as the scar upon his face shows, has fought in many wars. Sir, what he tells you is true. We are Christian captives escaped from Granada and flying to Seville with my daughter, to whom I pray you to do no harm, to ask for the protection of their gracious Majesties, and to find a passage back to England.” “You do not look like an Englishman,” answered the captain; “you look like a Marano.” “Sir, I cannot help my looks. I am a merchant of London, Castell by name. It is one well known in Seville and throughout this land, where I have large dealings, as, if I can but see him, your king himself will acknowledge. Be not deceived by our dress, which we had to put on in order to escape from Granada, but, I beseech you, let us go on to Seville.” “Señor Castell,” answered the officer, “I am the Captain Arrano of Puebla, and, since you would not stop when we called to you, and have killed one of my best soldiers, to Seville you must certainly go, but with me, not by yourselves. You are my prisoners, but have no fear. No violence shall be done to you or the lady, who must take your trials for your deeds before the King’s court, and there tell your story, true or false.” So, having been disarmed of their swords, they were allowed to remount their horses and taken on towards Seville as prisoners. “At least,” said Margaret to Peter, “we have nothing more to fear from highwaymen, and have escaped these soldiers’ swords unhurt.” “Yes,” answered Peter with a groan, “but I hoped that to-night we should have slept upon the Margaret while she slipped down the river towards the open sea, and not in a Spanish jail. Now, as fate will have it, for the second time I have killed a man on your behalf, and all the business will begin again. Truly our luck is bad!” “I think it might be worse, and I cannot blame you for that deed,” answered Margaret, remembering the rough hands of the dead soldier, whom some of his comrades had stopped behind to bury. During all the remainder of that long day they rode on through the burning heat, across the rich, cultivated plain, towards the great city of Seville, whereof the Giralda, which once had been the minaret of a Moorish mosque, towered hundreds of feet into the air before them. At length, towards evening, they entered the eastern suburbs of the vast city and, passing through them and a great gate beyond, began to thread its tortuous streets. “Whither go we, Captain Arrano?” asked Castell presently. “To the prison of the Holy Hermandad to await your trial for the slaying of one of its soldiers,” answered the officer. “I pray that we may get there soon then,” said Peter, looking at Margaret, who, overcome with fatigue, swayed upon her saddle like a flower in the wind.