“I think,” concluded Montalvo, “that after this explanation, what may have appeared to be a breach of manners will be forgiven. I have only one other word to add. My position is peculiar; I am an official here, and I speak boldly among friends taking the risk that any of you present will use what I say against me, which for my part I do not believe. Although there is no better Catholic and no truer Spaniard in the Netherlands, I have been accused of showing too great a sympathy with your people, and of dealing too leniently with those who have incurred the displeasure of our Holy Church. In the cause of right and justice I am willing to bear such aspersions; still this is a slanderous world, a world in which truth does not always prevail. Therefore, although I have told you nothing but the bare facts, I do suggest in the interests of your hostess—in my own humble interest who might be misrepresented, and I may add in the interest of every one present at this board—that it will perhaps be well that the details of the story which I have had the honour of telling you should not be spread about—that they should in fact find a grave within these walls. Friends, do you agree?” Then moved by a common impulse, and by a common if a secret fear, with the single exception of Lysbeth, every person present, yes, even the cautious and far-seeing young Van de Werff, echoed “We agree.” “Friends,” said Montalvo, “those simple words carry to my mind conviction deep as any vow however solemn; deep, if that were possible, as did the oath of your hostess, upon the faith of which I felt myself justified in acquitting the poor creature who was alleged to be an escaped heretic.” Then with a courteous and all-embracing bow Montalvo sat down. “What a good man! What a delightful man!” murmured Aunt Clara to Dirk in the buzz of conversation which ensued. “Yes, yes, cousin, but——” “And what discrimination he has, what taste! Did you notice what he said about the cooking?” “I heard something, but——” “It is true that folk have told me that my capon stewed in milk, such as we had to-night—Why, lad, what is the matter with your doublet? You fidget me by continually rubbing at it.” “You have upset the red wine over it, that is all,” answered Dirk, sulkily. “It is spoiled.” “And little loss either; to tell you the truth, Dirk, I never saw a coat worse cut. You young men should learn in the matter of clothes from the Spanish gentlemen. Look at his Excellency, the Count Montalvo, for instance——” “See here, aunt,” broke in Dirk with suppressed fury, “I think I have heard enough about Spaniards and the Captain Montalvo for one night. First of all he spirits off Lysbeth and is absent with her for four hours; then he invites himself to supper and places himself at the head of the table with her, setting me down to the dullest meal I ever ate at the other end——”