“Then that is just where the trouble lies,” he exclaimed. “I know it from my people, who keep me well informed, that all those servants of de Ayala, and there are more than twenty of them, have sworn an oath by the Virgin of Seville that before they leave this land they will have your kinsman’s blood in payment for that of Andrew Pherson, who, although a Scotchman, was their officer, and a brave man whom they loved much. Now, if they attack him, as they will, there must be a brawl, for Peter fights well, and if there is a brawl, though Peter and the English get the best of it, as very likely they may, Peter will certainly be hanged, for so the King has promised.” “Before they leave the land? When do they leave it?” “De Ayala sails within a month, and his folk with him, for his co-ambassador, the Doctor de Puebla, will bear with him no more, and has written from the country house where he is sulking that one of them must go.” “Then I think it is best, Señor, that Peter should travel for a month.” “Friend Castell, you are wise; I think so too, and, I counsel you, arrange it at once. Hush! here comes the lady, your daughter.” As he spoke, Margaret appeared descending the broad oak stairs which led into the ante-room. Holding a lamp in her hand, she was in full light, whereas the two men stood in the shadow. She wore a low-cut dress of crimson velvet, embroidered about the bodice with dead gold, which enhanced the dazzling whiteness of her shapely neck and bosom. Round her throat hung a string of great pearls, and on her head was a net of gold, studded with smaller pearls, from beneath which her glorious, chestnut-black hair flowed down in rippling waves almost to her knees. Having her father’s bidding so to do, she had adorned herself thus that she might look her fairest, not in the eyes of their guest, but in those of her new-affianced husband. So fair was she seen thus that d’Aguilar, the artist, the adorer of loveliness, caught his breath and shivered at the sight of her. [Illustration: ] Margaret appeared descending the broad oak stairs “By the eleven thousand virgins!” he said, “your daughter is more beautiful than all of them put together. She should be crowned a queen, and bewitch the world.” “Nay, nay, Señor,” answered Castell hurriedly; “let her remain humble and honest, and bewitch her husband.” “So I should say if I were the husband,” he muttered, then stepped forward, bowing, to meet her. Now the light of the silver lamp she held on high flowed over the two of them, d’Aguilar and Margaret, and certainly they seemed a well-matched pair. Both were tall and cast by Nature in a rich and splendid mould; both had that high air of breeding which comes with ancient blood—for what bloods are more ancient than those of the Jew and the Eastern?—both were slow and stately of movement, low-voiced, and dignified of speech. Castell noted it and was afraid, he knew not of what.