“Would you like a mantilla of real Spanish lace for your head and shoulders? Well, you shall have one that I brought from Spain with me, for I know no other lady in the land whom it would become better. But, Mistress Betty, you told me wrong about your master. I went to the chapel and he was not there.” “He was there, Señor,” she answered, eager to set herself right with this most agreeable and discriminating foreigner, “for I saw him go in a moment before, and he did not come out again.” “Then, Señora, where could he have hidden himself? Has the place a crypt?” “None that I have heard of; but,” she added, “there is a kind of little room behind the altar.” “Indeed. How do you know that? I saw no room.” “Because one day I heard a voice behind the tapestry, Señor, and, lifting it, saw a sliding door left open, and Master Castell kneeling before a table and saying his prayers aloud.” “How strange! And what was there on the table?” “Only a queer-shaped box of wood like a little house, and two candlesticks, and some rolls of parchment. But I forgot, Señor; I promised Master Castell to say nothing about that place, for he turned and saw me, and came at me like a watchdog out of its kennel. You won’t say that I told you, will you, Señor?” “Not I; your good master’s private cupboard does not interest me. Now I want to know something more. Why is that beautiful cousin of yours not married? Has she no suitors?” “Suitors, Señor? Yes, plenty of them, but she sends them all about their business, and seems to have no mind that way.” “Perhaps she is in love with her cousin, that long-legged, strong-armed, wooden-headed Master Brome.” “Oh! no, Señor, I don’t think so; no lady could be in love with him—he is too stern and silent.” “I agree with you, Señora. Then perhaps he is in love with her.” Betty shook her head, and replied: “Peter Brome doesn’t think anything of women, Señor. At least he never speaks to or of them.” “Which shows that probably he thinks about them all the more. Well, well, it is no affair of ours, is it? Only I am glad to hear that there is nothing between them, since your mistress ought to marry high, and be a great lady, not a mere merchant’s wife.” “Yes, Señor. Though Peter Brome is not a merchant, at least by birth, he is high-born, and should be Sir Peter Brome if his father had not fought on the wrong side and sold his land. He is a soldier, and a very brave one, they say, as all might see last night.” “No doubt, and perhaps would make a great captain, if he had the chance, with his stern face and silent tongue. But, Señora Betty, say, how comes it that, being so handsome,” and he bowed, “you are not married either? I am sure it can be from no lack of suitors.” Again Betty, foolish girl, flushed with pleasure at the compliment.