A fist rocked him almost before he had crossed the threshold. Dizzily, Kesley wobbled backward to get a view of his assailant. He was a big, broad-shouldered, black-bearded man wearing embroidered robes and a shimmering gold tiara. A _noble_, Kesley decided. _He packs a mean punch._ The big man reached upward and yanked on a bell. Almost instantly, the room was full of guards. Determined to do as much damage as he could before being retaken, Kesley sprang forward. He clawed at the embroidered gold robes, feeling gold inlay ripping away under his fingernails. Then the noble hit him again, sending him staggering up against the wall. Two guards seized him. "One of the escaped prisoners, _señor_," a guard babbled. "How he got in here we do not know. He--" "Enough, _payaso_. Take him away. Kill him." A tired frown crossed the big man's forehead. "No. Forget that. Tie him to a chair, and leave him alone here with me." The guard looked up doubtfully, but quickly concealed his misgivings. "Of course, sire." "Send in my clothier also. This idiot has ruined my robes." Kesley allowed himself to be tied to a chair. "You're a bold fool," the big man said, coming over to glower down at Kesley. He knotted his fingers in his thick, tangled dark beard, and smiled, baring stained yellow teeth. Kesley met the noble's gaze evenly. The deep eyes were set in a network of fine wrinkles. They were not the eyes of an ordinary man. They were heavy with the shadow of a hundred thousand days gone by, and infinities of days to come. Kesley realized that the man before him was no mere noble. He could only be Don Miguel, Duke of South America. An Immortal. IV Kesley watched Miguel pace uneasily back and forth. The room he had blundered into was evidently one of the Ducal offices; a broad desk at the back was littered with a great many official-looking papers, and on one wall hung a glossy shield bearing Miguel's coat of arms. Suddenly Miguel turned. "Where are you from?" he asked. His voice was deep, resonant, commanding. "Iowa Province. I was a farmer." "Oh? Then what might you be doing in my lands?" Kesley saw that he had blundered. Farmers, normally, did not take pleasure jaunts to South America. He tried to repair the damage. "I was on a buying tour. I was down here for cattle, and grain, and--" Miguel chuckled. "Enough, please. One does not have to be an Immortal to see through your lies." He pulled out a chair and sprawled his big form down. Smiling strangely, he said, "You can speak the truth. Why are you here?" "I--I--" Kesley's face reddened. He realized that he had no rational answer to give. He was here only because van Alen had led him here--and van Alen was dead or wounded now, far to the south. Miguel sighed. "You assassins are all alike. At the moment of capture, you lose the sacred fire." Swiftly he leaned over and undid Kesley's bonds.