“It is well thought of,” Padilh answered. “Do so without delay. I doubt if these men will put themselves in our power after all, but it is best to be prepared to receive them.” Don Pedro’s doubt was terminated immediately after entering the city, for in turning a corner they suddenly encountered a party with lights and a prisoner. “It is the Count de Torrevedros,” the officer in command answered to the maître-de-camp’s inquiry. “Is it possible,” the knight returned, regarding sorrowfully the mean figure shown by the torches the soldiers held aloft for the purpose. “He speaks the truth—I am that unfortunate man,” the count said dejectedly. Upon which Padilh exclaimed—“It would be a shame to knighthood to see the representative of any king stand bare-headed,” and placed his own bonnet on the viceroy’s head. “Give me your word as a knight and nobleman that you will not attempt to escape Señor Count,” he added immediately. “It would be so vain to think of it, that I pledge my honor willingly, sir,” the count rejoined, “if it gives you any satisfaction.” “Unbind his arms,” the maître-de-camp said, turning to the officer, “I will be responsible. See that he wants no comfort, and let his expenses be set to my cost. A viceroy in such condition has had his share of misfortune already.” With which injunction spoken aside the knight hastened on. “If that is not your Cid returned to life,” the count said slightly smiling, “it can only be Don Pedro de Padilh.” “You are right,” the officer replied, unloosening his cord, “he is the very mirror of Spanish chivalry.” Meantime, the maître-de-camp, followed by his suite, rapidly neared the quarters of the marquis. From a swift walk they fell into a run. “We must make haste or the vultures will have flown,” he said, and not without reason, for at the moment they arrived in front of the house occupied by the Spanish commander, two men were in the act of coming out. The stream of light from the rooms behind showed at once that one was taller and more slender than the other, and that both wore peasant’s frocks, and the stouter of the couple at the instant jingled the contents of a bag in his hand, and said something with a laugh to his comrade. “In the name of the King of Spain,” Don Pedro cried advancing, “I arrest you for murder. Draw your swords gentlemen and close in.” “Curse the luck!” Wolfang unguardedly exclaimed, grinding his teeth with rage; “another half hour and we would have been safe.” “Hold your tongue, fool!” Hilo said sharply. “Who dares oppose a free conduct of the commander-in-chief, Marquis of Santa Cruz,” he demanded aloud, showing a bit of paper. “I—maître-de-camp of the marquis,” Padilh rejoined, “and until his further pleasure is known, you will remain my prisoners.” And without staying for more words the knight passed through a private door and straight to the rooms of Santa Cruz.