"The pardon of any individual conspirator might still be granted, Lord Glisfoyle," interposed the Queen, pointedly, "provided no complicity in this were found." I understood her meaning, but would not yield my point. "I have your Majesty’s gracious assurance that in the event of my proving the charges I have brought, my claims would be hard to resist whatever the favour I asked." "You surely cannot think of pressing this, now," was her reply, with a dash of surprise. "Most respectfully I must press it with all the power and force at my command; and with all submission to your Majesty, I am bound to say, I can prefer no other and no less request. There is no proof that this is a Carlist outrage." My firmness was altogether unwelcome, and the Queen and her Ministers showed both irritation and impatience at my persistence. But I cared nothing for that. I was fighting for what I believed would be the one certain method of winning Sarita and removing her last objections, and I would not give way. "Your solicitude for these miscreants is out of place, my lord, and what you ask is a sheer impossibility," said the Duke, haughtily. "Any further insistence must, as you will see, wear a curious look. These wretches are none the less traitors because their first plot failed. This second stroke has not failed." "Had the man who has met this tragic death succeeded in his project, my lord Duke; if the young King were not only abducted but put to death; if the Monarchy had been overthrown and a Republic proclaimed in its place; if Her Majesty here were an exile from her kingdom, yourselves in danger, and the country in the throes of a bloody revolution, would you have deemed it then too great a price to have paid for the stroke which would have prevented everything? That was what the rescue of the young King meant, nothing less; and it will not be affected by Senor Quesada’s death, if I can prove it to have been a private act. But as you will," I said, indignantly, after a moment’s pause, "I trusted to the royal pledge, and if you, my lords, advise that the royal word of honour shall be broken, I, of course, can say no more. May I crave your Majesty’s permission to withdraw?" It was a bold stroke, but it did more to help me than hours of argument and wrangling. At the mention of her son’s death the Queen winced and grew suddenly pale, and came over at once to my side. "What Lord Glisfoyle urges is true, gentlemen," she said, "and he who saved the King, my son, cannot be allowed to find my ears deaf to his plea. What you ask, Lord Glisfoyle, shall be granted, if you can prove this crime to be no Carlist outrage, and if my influence and my son’s will stand for aught in the councils of Spain." She spoke proudly and almost sternly, and the others were as much discomfited as I was elated.