“Well,” said the constable, “I was but a stripling at the time, but I well remember how the count led his lances at St. Quentin. There was not a—hush! what’s that?” he stopped suddenly and asked. “What?” demanded most of his audience, who had heard nothing but the breaking of Don Pedro’s glass upset by his elbow. Perhaps Don Pedro, sitting next, was the only other who heard the smothered cry from a partition behind their host, for Don Inique’s face was as usual inflexible as a mask, and Padilh, turning to the constable, said— “I interrupted you. You were saying?” “Count Egmont rode so gallantly, there was not a man in the army had seen the like before; it was a ballad of the campeador acted to the life. Even the king, when he came down from the Escurial, praised his bravery, and afterward presented him a sword, upon which was engraved ‘St. Quentin.’” The constable may have repeated the last word to satisfy a doubt in his mind, but if so he was disappointed in his purpose, for no response came from the partition, although a momentary silence followed the close of the sentence. I mention this little incident because it was the prelude to a singular conversation between the two camp-masters, the next morning, on board the Pez-de-mar. “I cannot be mistaken, Padilh,” said the other, in his starched way. “You heard the exclamation yesterday at table, and endeavored to drown it. You saved me, sir, a pang—for which I am grateful,” he added, with the air of a man compelled to acknowledge a service. “I did my best and quickest to forestall curiosity,” answered Sir Pedro kindly. “The Constable of Castile is the only gentleman in the fleet who suspects the presence of your—your—son. And that only since yesterday; he told me as much last evening. For your precautions in Portugal have been effectual in keeping a knowledge of the matter even from most of our comrades at St. Quentin.” “A curse fall on the name,” muttered Inique bitterly. “It is the only touchstone his memory has, and at its utterance nothing but force can stay his screams. God pity me: I act it all over in mind whenever the boy cries out as he did on the field.” Padilh knew his associate well enough to disguise what commiseration he felt, and without noticing the interruption continued— “Thus, señor, your secret is safe still; for as you may readily believe, the constable got as little information from my tongue as by his own at table.” “Do you think he pronounced the name with design?” cried the maître-de-camp, his brows contracting. “If I—” “No,” returned honest Don Pedro decidedly, “the constable is a man of worth, and would pry into no one’s affairs systematically. But his chief defect is a tendency to say or do whatever comes into his head, and that he falls into difficulty less often is perhaps owing more to luck than consideration on his part. Don’t you remember hearing the answer he made his Holiness, while a mere lad?” “No,” absently.