“We have a message for you, Señor, from a certain comrade of ours, one Andrew, a Scotchman, whom you met a few nights ago,” replied the spokesman of the pair. “He is dead, but still he sends his message, and it is that we should ask you to join him at once. Now, all of us brothers have sworn to deliver that message, and to see that you keep the tryst. If some of us should chance to fail, then others will meet you with the message until you keep that tryst.” “You mean that you wish to murder me,” said Peter, setting his mouth and drawing the sword from beneath his cloak. “Well, come on, cowards, and we will see whom Andrew gets for company in hell to-day. Run back, Margaret and Betty—run.” And he tore off his cloak and threw it over his left arm. [Illustration: ] “You mean that you wish to murder me” So for a moment they stood, for he looked fierce and ill to deal with. Then, just as they began to feint in front of him, there came a rush of feet, and on either side of Peter appeared the two stout serving-men, also sword in hand. “I am glad of your company,” he said, catching sight of them out of the corners of his eyes. “Now, Señors Cut-throats, do you still wish to deliver that message?” The answer of the Spaniards, who saw themselves thus unexpectedly out-matched, was to turn and run, whereon one of the serving-men, picking up a big stone that lay in the path, hurled it after them with all his force. It struck the hindmost Spaniard full in the back, and so heavy was the blow that he fell on to his face in the mud, whence he rose and limped away, cursing them with strange, Spanish oaths, and vowing vengeance. “Now,” said Peter, “I think that we may go home in safety, for no more messengers will come from Andrew to-day.” “No,” gasped Margaret, “not to-day, but to-morrow or the next day they will come, and oh! how will it end?” “That God knows alone,” answered Peter gravely as he sheathed his sword. When the story of this attempt was told to Castell he seemed much disturbed. “It is clear that they have a blood-feud against you on account of that Scotchman whom you killed in self-defence,” he said anxiously. “Also these Spaniards are very revengeful, nor have they forgiven you for calling the English to your aid against them. Peter, I fear that if you go abroad they will murder you.” “Well, I cannot stay indoors always, like a rat in a drain,” said Peter crossly, “so what is to be done? Appeal to the law?” “No; for you have just broken the law by killing a man. I think you had best go away for a while till this storm blows over.” “Go away! Peter go away?” broke in Margaret, dismayed.