With this there is a horrid burst of merriment from Alva, and he laughs: “Ho, ho! The fox at last. My daughter, you have gained the ten thousand crowns reward. This is the man I hungered for. Come here and kiss your father!” Over all this to the girl’s astonished senses rises the soft music of the harps, mandolins and rebecs floating through the windows from the musicians on the barge playing serenade upon the summer water outside. Hearing this music and seeing the Englishman’s design, Alva orders sharply: “His boat—take care of that! Let none escape!” Immediately there is a volley fired from the room right into the boat floating beneath the window, and fearful cries and screams and shrieks go up from murdered Italy; as flute players die with note upon their lips, and wounded musicians drown beneath the window. At this moment, with mighty bound, tearing himself free from those who hold him, Chester, this man she loves, her Guido, is beside her shuddering: “Why have you done this thing?” “Why have I done this thing? Because of love of you!” she answers back. “Why have you killed that man there?” For she does not yet understand. But her father says: “Come hither, Hermoine, I will explain.” To this she says: “No, no!” Alva is coming toward her and she cries to him: “Stand where you are! Don’t dare to touch me till you tell me why you have forgotten your promise to me!” Then he of Alva, with voice that seems to her harsh as the judgment trumpet of our Lord will seem to those who have no hope in eternity, answers: “This man is not the man you thought you loved. This is not Guido Amati. He was killed at the Battle on the Ice, slain by this English rover, this accursed pirate, this scum of the sea, this base-born clown, who aped a Spanish noble to win your trust and love.” “Base-born clown!” breaks out the Englishman. “That’s a lie, when coupled with the name of Chester. My lord of Alva, you speak to belted English knight. My accolade was given by the Queen’s own hand. I have in me the blood of the Stanhopes, who fought with William the Conqueror; my cousin is a Stanley and wears Earl’s coronet. Nobility I have enough for you and yours. Do you think I would have sullied her I love by luring her to wed ignoble blood? Look—on my breast I bear the golden spurs of knighthood!” At this the girl, who has cowered under the words that brand the man she loves as one of the ignoble, seizing from Chester’s breast the trinkets that show he is of her rank and class, holds them up before my lord of Alva, and cries out in almost happy voice: “He’s noble! Father, do you hear, HE’S NOBLE! Now you can’t refuse, he’s noble, though he is—” she pauses here and falters to Guy, for now she somewhat understands, “Are you the—‘The First of the English?’” “Yes!”