“As well as a soldier like myself could guess, your Highness, and the tongue of one. It was said he spoke Castilian as purely as a priest.” “Very good, that will do, sergeant,” says the Viceroy. And they soon arrive at the country house. But being a wary old tactician, my lord of Alva says nothing of the strange revelation that has come to him at the Fort at Lillo, and striding into Hermoine’s apartment, remarks: “My daughter, as we promised we have returned to see this gentleman you love, Guido Amati; who must be of wondrous strong frame.” “How so?” asks the girl. “He was desperately wounded at the Battle on the Ice.” “I should think so! Haven’t I seen the wounds? They’re awful!” This last is a piquant shudder. “Seen the pike wounds through his body?” “No, but there was a cut upon his head that would have let out the life of any but a Paladin.” “Humph! they say your Paladin is a dissipated fellow.” “That’s a falsehood! some rival sends forth this story about him every time. Why, even at the house of Bodé Volcker,” goes on Hermoine, “that fibbing merchant told me he was drunk, when two seconds after my Guido strides up to me as sober as you are, and a good deal happier looking, and not with that extraordinary benumbed expression that’s on your dear old face.” Here the girl kisses it. “Tell me how you met him.” Thus encouraged Doña Hermoine who, sweetheart like, loves to prattle of her adored, sits down and makes confession to her father; during which he asks her one or two questions she thinks are foolish, but he thinks pertinent. “You say you first met him on the day of the spring flood of 1572?” “Yes, papa; that was the night I told you of, when he protected me from the Gueux.” “A—ah—ah This gentleman you love has dark hair and eyes?” “No, bright blue eyes, and his hair is for a Spaniard very blonde—Did I not tell you so, Goosey!” “Oh, yes; I meant bright eyes, I had forgotten. Light chestnut hair, you say, and a free and easy manner. He walks like a sailor.” “Like a cavalryman!” “Ah, yes; they both have rolling gaits. The day you met him was the one I came so hurriedly in from Brussels?” “Yes, you came very hastily. It was the day Floris the Painter had that drinking bout, and drank one of his opponents even unto death.” “Yes, I recollect,” says His Highness slowly. “The day Guerra would have made revelation to me, but died. This gentleman you say you love,” my lord of Alva’s manner has a kind of forced lightness in it, “speaks the patois of Hispaniola?” “Yes, it is poor Spanish, but sounds very sweet to me.” “Humph! when this gentleman arrives, bring him to me.” And going from the apartment Alva gives some pertinent directions to the lieutenant in command of his escort. Then he returns to the dining-room, and, as it is nearly eight o clock—has supper served to him.