“It is your blood also, who are half a Jew, and, therefore, at least you should understand them.” “Mayhap I do understand, mayhap I think them great in their own fashion, yes, noble even, and admire, if it can be noble to seek to win away another man’s betrothed. But, Señor, I am that man’s betrothed, and all of me, my body and my soul, is his, nor would I go back upon my word, and so break his heart, to win the empire of the earth. Señor, once more I implore you to leave this poor maid to the humble life that she has chosen, and to forget her.” “Lady,” answered d’Aguilar, “your words are wise and gentle, and I thank you for them. But I cannot forget you, and that oath I swore just now I swear again, thus.” And before she could prevent him, or even guess what he was about to do, he lifted the gold crucifix that hung by a chain about her neck, kissed it, and let it fall gently back upon her breast, saying, “See, I might have kissed your lips before you could have stayed me, but that I will never do until you give me leave, so in place of them I kiss the cross, which till then we both must carry. Lady, my lady Margaret, within a day or two I sail for Spain, but your image shall sail with me, and I believe that ere long our paths must cross again. How can it be otherwise since the threads of your life and mine were intertwined on that night outside the Palace of Westminster —intertwined never to be separated till one of us has ceased to be, and then only for a little while. Lady, for the present, farewell.” Then swiftly and silently as he had come, d’Aguilar went. It was Betty who let him out at the side door, as she had let him in. More, glancing round to see that she was not observed—for it chanced now that Peter was away with some of the best men, and the master was out with others, no one was on watch this night—leaving the door ajar that she might re-enter, she followed him a little way, till they came to an old arch, which in some bygone time had led to a house now pulled down. Into this dark place Betty slipped, touching d’Aguilar on the arm as she did so. For a moment he hesitated, then, muttering some Spanish oath between his teeth, followed her. “Well, most fair Betty,” he said, “what word have you for me now?” “The question is, Señor Carlos,” answered Betty with scarcely suppressed indignation, “what word you have for me, who dared so much for you to-night? That you have plenty for my cousin, I know, since standing in the cold garden I could hear you talk, talk, talk, through the shutters, as though for your very life.” “I pray that those shutters had no hole in them,” reflected d’Aguilar to himself. “No, there was a curtain also; she can have seen nothing.” But aloud he answered: “Mistress Betty, you should not stand about in this bitter wind; you might fall ill, and then what should I suffer?”