One of these fellows, a great, red-haired Scotchman, whom the priest-diplomatist had brought with him from that country, where he had also been ambassador, suddenly perceiving before him a woman who appeared to be young and pretty, determined to examine her more closely, and to this end made use of a rude stratagem. Pretending to stumble, he grasped at Margaret’s cloak as though to save himself, and with a wrench tore it open, revealing her beautiful face and graceful figure. “A dove, comrades!—a dove!” he shouted in a voice thick with drink, “who has flown here to give me a kiss.” And, casting his long arms about her, he strove to draw her to him. [Illustration: ] “A dove, comrades!—A dove!” “Peter! Help me, Peter!” cried Margaret as she struggled fiercely in his grip. “No, no, if you want a saint, my bonny lass,” said the drunken Scotchman, “Andrew is as good as Peter,” at which witticism those of the others who understood him laughed, for the man’s name was Andrew. Next instant they laughed again, and to the ruffian Andrew it seemed as though suddenly he had fallen into the power of a whirlwind. At least Margaret was wrenched away from him, while he spun round and round to fall violently upon his face. “That’s Peter!” exclaimed one of the soldiers in Spanish. “Yes,” answered another, “and a patron saint worth having”; while a third pulled the recumbent Andrew to his feet. The man looked like a devil. His cap had gone, and his fiery red hair was smeared with mud. Moreover, his nose had been broken on a cobble stone, and blood from it poured all over him, while his little red eyes glared like a ferret’s, and his face turned a dirty white with pain and rage. Howling out something in Scotch, of a sudden he drew his sword and rushed straight at his adversary, purposing to kill him. Now, Peter had no sword, but only his short knife, which he found no time to draw. In his hand, however, he carried a stout holly staff shod with iron, and, while Margaret clasped her hands and Betty screamed, on this he caught the descending blow, and, furious as it was, parried and turned it. Then, before the man could strike again, that staff was up, and Peter had leapt upon him. It fell with fearful force, breaking the Scotchman’s shoulder and sending him reeling back. “Shrewdly struck, Peter! Well done, Peter!” shouted the spectators. But Peter neither saw nor heard them, for he was mad with rage at the insult that had been offered to Margaret. Up flew the iron-tipped staff again, and down it came, this time full on Andrew’s head, which it shattered like an egg-shell, so that the brute fell backwards, dead. For a moment there was silence, for the joke had taken a tragic turn. Then one of the Spaniards said, glancing at the prostrate form: “Name of God! our mate is done for. That merchant hits hard.” Instantly there arose a murmur among the dead man’s comrades, and one of them cried: “Cut him down!”