This news excited the curiosity of the old gentlemen, for not many fine people came to Dedham. At any rate both of them rose, somewhat stiffly, and walked to the gate to look. Yes, the child was right, for there, sure enough, about two hundred yards away, advanced an imposing cavalcade. In front of it, mounted on a fine horse, sat a still finer lady, a very large and handsome lady, dressed in black silks, and wearing a black lace veil that hung from her head. At her side was another lady, much muffled up as though she found the climate cold, and riding between them, on a pony, a gallant looking little boy. After these came servants, male and female, six or eight of them, and last of all a great wain, laden with baggage, drawn by four big Flemish horses. “Now, whom have we here?” ejaculated Castell, staring at them. Captain Smith stared too, and sniffed at the wind as he had often done upon his deck on a foggy morning. “I seem to smell Spaniards,” he said, “which is a smell I don’t like. Look at their rigging. Now, Master Castell, of whom does that barque with all her sails set remind you?” Castell shook his head doubtfully. “I seem to remember,” went on Smith, “a great girl decked out like a maypole running across white sand in that Place of Bulls at Seville—but I forgot, you weren’t there, were you?” Now a loud, ringing voice was heard speaking in Spanish, and commanding some one to go to yonder house and inquire where was the gate to the Old Hall. Then Castell knew at once. “It is Betty,” he said. “By the beard of Abraham, it is Betty.” “I think so too; but don’t talk of Abraham, Master. He is a dangerous man, Abraham, in these very Christian lands; say, ‘By the Keys of St. Peter,’ or, ‘By St. Paul’s infirmities.’” “Child,” broke in Castell, turning to one of the little girls, “run up to the Hall and tell your father and mother that Betty has come, and brought half Spain with her. Quickly now, and remember the name, Betty!” The child departed, wondering, by the back way; while Castell and Smith walked towards the strangers. “Can we assist you, Señora?” asked the former in Spanish. “Marchioness of Morella, if you please—” she began in the same language, then suddenly added in English, “Why, bless my eyes! If it isn’t my old master, John Castell, with white wool instead of black!” “It came white after my shaving by a sainted barber in the Holy House,” said Castell. “But come off that tall horse of yours, Betty, my dear—I beg your pardon—most noble and highly born Marchioness of Morella, and give me a kiss.” “That I will, twenty, if you like,” she answered, arriving in his arms so suddenly from on high, that had it not been for the sturdy support of Smith behind, they would both of them have rolled upon the ground. “Whose are those children?” she asked, when she had kissed Castell and shaken Smith by the hand. “But no need to ask, they have got my cousin Margaret’s eyes and Peter’s long nose. How are they?” she added anxiously.