The girl runs out to him, crying: “I didn’t think you would be here so soon; your letter said four days, My Lord of Alva!” And courtesies to him; but he springs off war horse, his serpent’s eyes aflame with the one love of his declining years, and taking to his heart his piquant child, whispers: “Then you, my Hermoine, are sorry?” “Sorry that you have come?—delighted!” “You must know,” remarks the Duke as he passes into the house with her, “after I had written to you I received courier from Antwerp that brought me such news from D’Avila, in command, that made it necessary for me to return to the Citadel for a day or two.” This is true; for beneath a long account of military advices as to reinforcements, arms and munitions of war, and the various details of the garrisons of Brabant and Flanders, Sancho D’Avila had chanced to write almost as a postscript to the letter: “By the by, Your Highness will be concerned to learn your old pensioner, the venerable Roderigo, died four days ago.” It is this careless line that has brought My Lord of Alva so suddenly from Nijmegen, where he has been forwarding munitions to the besieging army round Haarlem. Within an hour of receipt of this Alva, with some muttered execrations, has taken horse and journeyed from the town on the Waal with his body guard, getting relays of horses at Hertogenbosch, Breda and Bergen, and by quickest route coming up the Schelde from that place to Antwerp. The road passing through Sandvliet, and it being but five minutes’ ride to this thing he loves best upon the earth, my lord has turned his bridle and is now in his daughter’s arms. “I cannot stay long,” he remarks hurriedly; “I must be in Antwerp to-night.” “To-morrow morning will do much better. Your chamber is always prepared for you. It is never occupied by anyone else.” Here the girl blushes suddenly, remembering that her Guido had usurped it for some fifteen minutes of his time. “Sup with me you shall!” “Impossible, I must go on.” “You shan’t, papa, YOU SHAN’T! You’ve been away so long from orders you’re becoming mutinous and undisciplined.” With this she treats him in a way that Alva loves from her, but would permit from no one else upon this earth, man nor woman. While she is speaking to him, despite his protestations, Doña Hermoine has got his helmet off and is patting his gray locks and pulling the two long tresses of his silver beard with her white hands and crying: “Now I have you a prisoner! Ten kisses for your ransom!” “Santos y demonios! you’re the worst rebel in the Netherlands,” laughs the Duke. “Yes, the most defiant and the only one who will conquer YOU!”