The door opened; but he seemed to take no heed, so diligently did he count his figures. Yet, although his eyes were fixed upon the paper, in some way that he could not understand he was well aware that d’Aguilar and no other stood in the room behind him, the truth being, no doubt, that unconsciously he had recognised his footstep. For a moment the knowledge turned him cold—he who had just been reading of the mission of this man—and feared what was to come. Yet he acted well. “Why do you disturb me, Daughter?” he said testily, and without looking round. “Have not things gone ill enough with half the cargo destroyed by sea-water, and the rest, that you must trouble me while I sum up my losses?” And, casting the pen down, he turned his stool round impatiently. Yes! there sure enough stood d’Aguilar, very handsomely arrayed, and smiling and bowing as was his custom. CHAPTER VIII. D’AGUILAR SPEAKS. “Losses?” said d’Aguilar. “Do I hear the wealthy John Castell, who holds half the trade with Spain in the hollow of his hand, talk of losses?” “Yes, Señor, you do. Things have gone ill with this ship of mine that has barely lived through the spring gales. But be seated.” “Indeed, is that so?” said d’Aguilar as he sat down. “What a lying jade is rumour! For I was told that they had gone very well. Doubtless, however, what is loss to you would be priceless gain to one like me.” Castell made no answer, but waited, feeling that his visitor had not come to speak with him of his trading ventures. “Señor Castell,” said d’Aguilar, with a note of nervousness in his voice, “I am here to ask you for something.” “If it be a loan, Señor, I fear that the time is not opportune.” And he nodded towards the sheet of figures. “It is not a loan; it is a gift.” “Anything in my poor house is yours,” answered Castell courteously, and in Oriental form. “I rejoice to hear it, Señor, for I seek something from your house.” Castell looked a question at him with his quick black eyes. “I seek your daughter, the Señora Margaret, in marriage.” Castell stared at him, then a single word broke from his lips. “Impossible.” “Why impossible?” asked d’Aguilar slowly, yet as one who expected some such answer. “In age we are not unsuited, nor perhaps in fortune, while of rank I have enough, more than you guess perhaps. I vaunt not myself, yet women have thought me not uncomely. I should be a good friend to the house whence I took a wife, where perchance a day may come when friends will be needed; and lastly, I desire her not for what she may bring with her, though wealth is always welcome, but—I pray you to believe it—because I love her.” “I have heard that the Señor d’Aguilar loves many women, yonder in Granada.”