This pleases my lord of Alva, who is in what is for him a jovial humor, and he says: “You’re right; I have Haarlem now as surely in my grasp as if I had my troops in that dogged town. De Bossu has defeated Marinus Brandt upon the lake, the town is now cut off from provisions—it must be mine. Then when I have trampled out these rebels and can hand over this land unstained by sedition to my lord, Philip the King, we’ll go back to Spain together, and away from the fogs of this northern country, among the pomegranates, the vines, the cork trees and the olives, we’ll forget there ever has been war.” “Yes,” cries the girl, “and we’ll take him with us.” “Him? Who?” “My coming husband.” “Thy coming husband! Of whom are you talking, child?” says Alva in astounded voice. “Never saw I woman that was so free from earthly loves!” Then he laughs: “This is a rare change. Last time you were drooping. You had psalm-book in your hand and ritual, and talked of being the bride of Mother Church.” “But that has all gone away.” “I am glad of it, though I should not have said you nay. My Hermoine would have made a curious nun.” “Yes, she will make a better bride,” purrs the girl, going back to her subject. “But I won’t tell you all about it unless you dine with me, and only after dinner. See! Your escort are dismounting. They have had a long ride. They are taking refreshment. Will not my lord have the same mercy for himself he gives his soldiers? Besides, you look ill, worried.” “Not at all. There’s only one thing on my mind; the errand I came for, and that, though important, is not, I pray God, immediate.” “Then stay to dinner. I gave orders as I saw you ride up to the house.” At this, clapping her hands, the curtains are drawn up, and the Duke, taking his daughter’s arm, goes into the pleasures of the banquet. Here for the first time since the night before, Hermoine sees the Countess, and looking in her eyes knows that oath, or no oath, in some way she will get word of what has happened unto my lord of Alva. But to Hermoine’s delight Don Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, Lord of Alva and Duke of Huesca, spurred by curiosity, wishes tête-à-tête with his lovely child, and to the astonishment and rage of her duenna says very shortly: “Countess, I am glad to see you in your usual health. My daughter and I, having weighty matters to discuss, would be alone. Good afternoon, Doña de Pariza, I kiss your hand,” and he bows her to the door with stately Spanish etiquette; then says: “Hermoine, your story. Is it a jest about a lover, child?” “No jest.” “Tell me.” “After dinner, papa; not until wine has made your heart a little softer. You have hardened it in Holland.” “Not unto thee,” says my Lord. “Tell me, pretty one.” “Not unless you let me sit upon your august knee.” With this she is upon his lap and with soft caresses and cooing words of love and kisses and “Papa darlings” tells him of her lover.