“We have done our best, son,” he said, “and failed. Margaret will learn that we would have saved her if we could, but we shall not meet her here.” Peter ground his teeth, and looked about him desperately, for he had no words to say. What should he do? Leave Castell and rush for the waist of the ship and so perish, or stay and die there? Nay, he would not be butchered like a bird on a bough, he would fall fighting. “Farewell,” he called through the gale. “God rest our souls!” Then, waiting till the ship steadied herself, he ran aft, and reaching the ladder that led to her tower, staggered down it to the waist of the vessel, and at its foot halted, holding to the rail. The scene before him was strange enough, for there, ranged round the bulwarks, were the Spanish men, who watched him curiously, whilst a few paces away, resting against the mast, stood d’Aguilar, who lifted his hand, in which there was no weapon, and addressed him. “Señor Brome,” he shouted, “do not move another step or you are a dead man. Listen to me first, and then do what you will. Am I safe from your sword while I speak?” Peter nodded his head in assent, and d’Aguilar drew nearer, for even in that more sheltered place it was hard to hear because of the howling of the tempest. “Señor,” he said to Peter, “you are a very brave man, and have done a deed such as none of us have seen before; therefore, I wish to spare you if I may. Also, I have worked you bitter wrong, driven to it by the might of love and jealousy, for which reason also I wish to spare you. To set upon you now would be but murder, and, whatever else I do, I will not murder. First, let me ease your mind. Your lady and mine is aboard here; but fear not, she has come and will come to no harm from me, or from any man while I live. If for no other reason, I do not desire to affront one who, I hope, will be my wife by her own free will, and whom I have brought to Spain that she might not make this impossible by becoming yours. Señor, believe me, I would no more force a woman’s will than I would do murder on her lover.” “What did you, then, when you snatched her from her home by some foul trick?” asked Peter fiercely. “Señor, I did wrong to her and all of you, for which I would make amends.” “What amends? Will you give her back to me?” “No, that I cannot do, even if she should wish it, of which I am not sure; no—never while I live.” “Bring her forth, and let us hear whether she wishes it or no,” shouted Peter, hoping that his words would reach Margaret. But d’Aguilar only smiled and shook his head, then went on: