“You will see for yourself in a minute or two. Come, send on your people and baggage to the Hall, though where they will stow them all I don’t know, and walk with us.” Betty hesitated, for she had been calculating upon the effect of a triumphal entry in full state. But at that moment there appeared Margaret and Peter themselves—Margaret, a beautiful matron with a child in her arms, running, and Peter, looking much as he had always been, spare, long of limb, stern but for the kindly eyes, striding away behind, and after him sundry servants and the little girl Margaret. Then there arose a veritable babel of tongues, punctuated by embracings; but in the end the retinue and the baggage were got off up the drive, followed by the children and the little Spanish-looking boy, with whom they had already made friends, leaving only Betty and her closely muffled-up attendant. This attendant Peter contemplated for a while, as though there were something familiar to him in her general air. Apparently she observed his interest, for as though by accident she moved some of the wrappings that hid her face, revealing a single soft and lustrous eye and a few square inches of olive-coloured cheek. Then Peter knew her at once. “How are you, Inez?” he said, stretching out his hand with a smile, for really he was delighted to see her. “As well as a poor wanderer in a strange and very damp country can be, Don Peter,” she answered in her languorous voice, “and certainly somewhat the better for seeing an old friend whom last she met in a certain baker’s shop. Do you remember?” “Remember!” answered Peter. “It is not a thing I am likely to forget. Inez, what became of Fray Henriques? I have heard several different stories.” “One never can be sure,” she answered as she uncovered her smiling red lips; “there are so many dungeons in that old Moorish Holy House, and elsewhere, that it is impossible to keep count of their occupants, however good your information. All I know is that he got into trouble over that business, poor man. Suspicions arose about his conduct in the procession which the captain here will recall,” and she pointed to Smith. “Also, it is very dangerous for men in such positions to visit Jewish quarters and to write incautious letters—no, not the one you think of; I kept faith—but others, afterwards, begging for it back again, some of which miscarried.” “Is he dead then?” asked Peter. “Worse, I think,” she answered—“a living death, the ‘Punishment of the Wall.’” “Poor wretch!” said Peter, with a shudder. “Yes,” remarked Inez reflectively, “few doctors like their own medicine.” “I say, Inez,” said Peter, nodding his head towards Betty, “that marquis isn’t coming here, is he?” “In the spirit, perhaps, Don Peter, not otherwise.” “So he is really dead? What killed him?”