“Well,” answered Betty, “if so, it is because I put the better face on things, and smile even if my heart bleeds. At least, your lot is more hopeful than mine. If your husband has to fight to the death presently, so has mine, and between ourselves I favour Peter’s chances. He is a very stubborn fighter, Peter, and wonderfully strong—too stubborn and strong for any Spaniard.” “Well, that is as it should be,” said Margaret, smiling faintly, “seeing that Peter is your champion, and if he loses, you are stamped as a serving-girl, and a woman of no character.” “A serving-girl I was, or something not far different,” replied Betty in a reflective voice, “and my character is a matter between me and Heaven, though, after all, it might scrape through where others fail to pass. So these things do not trouble me over much. What troubles me is that if my champion wins he kills my husband.” “You don’t want him to be killed then?” asked Margaret, glancing at her. “No, I think not,” answered Betty with a little shake in her voice, and turning her head aside for a moment. “I know he is a scoundrel, but, you see, I always liked this scoundrel, just as you always hated him, so I cannot help wishing that he was going to meet some one who hits a little less hard than Peter. Also, if he dies, without doubt his heirs will raise suits against me.” “At any rate your father is not going to be burnt to-morrow,” said Margaret to change the subject, which, to tell the truth, was an awkward one. “No, Cousin, if my father had his deserts, according to all accounts, although the lineage that I gave of him is true enough, doubtless he was burnt long ago, and still goes on burning—in Purgatory, I mean—though God knows I would never bring a faggot to his fire. But Master Castell will not be burnt, so why fret about it.” “What makes you say that?” asked Margaret, who had not confided the details of a certain plot to Betty. “I don’t know, but I am sure that Peter will get him out somehow. He is a very good stick to lean on, Peter, although he seems so hard and stupid and silent, which, after all, is in the nature of sticks. But look, there is the cathedral—is it not a fine place?—and a great crowd of people waiting round the gate. Now smile, Cousin. Bow and smile as I do.”