“By Saint Denis!” cries Oliver, inspecting the missive, “I believe she does love you. If you have hit her heart you’re the first, and she has had half of Spain at her feet, I’m told.” Then, looking over the young man, he adds contemplatively: “It must be your peculiar blonde ferocity that has done it. If you had been a brunette Adonis, I wouldn’t have given a stiver for your chance. Dark eyed dandies about here are as plentiful as windmills.” “With this in my hand can I fail to make the attempt to see her before I go?” says Guy stoutly, securing the missive with a lover’s care in the breast of his doublet. “Apparently you will not, no matter what I say,” smiles the artist. Then he goes on earnestly and solemnly: “But let me give you a little advice. Under no circumstances; no matter how much she loves you; no matter if she swears to you she adores you better than all else in this world, do you tell her your secret.” “You think she would betray me?” “No! A thousand times no!” “You think it might destroy her love for me?” “Not if she loved you before. Hermoine de Alva once true, will be forever true.” “Then why should I fear to tell her?” “For this reason. She knows how much her father loves her. She has no fear of the human tiger; to her his claws are always velvet. By this note you can tell that Doña Hermoine thinks her word is law with the dictator of the Netherlands. So it is in little things!—a diamond necklace, a dozen new dresses, even the discarding of a suitor; for if she says no, that is the end of the gentleman with her father also. But in matters of State policy she has never run against him. She does not know that in affairs of government, in upholding his own laws, edicts and proclamations, Alva is ice and iron together. What I fear is that you may one day be persuaded to go with her and tell the dictator your story, and she will tell papa that she loves you, assured that he will spare you and pardon you and put you up on high for her sake; but for God’s sake don’t ever deceive yourself about Alva’s mercy. If you do, you are lost. Her tears, her prayers, will never save you. Remember that, my Guido, who are in love with the tiger’s cub!” “Why should you call her that?” cries Guy savagely. “I should not call her that,” returns the painter sadly. “She has been all condescension and kindness to me; she has permitted me to take her beautiful face and put it on my canvas, to give me a chance for fame and immortality.” “Ah! she has granted you sittings here?” “Yes, with her duenna present.” “Then arrange an interview for me this afternoon here.” “It would do you no good. She would not come without attendants. Do not think that Hermoine de Alva will forget any point of etiquette, even though she adores you—of which you seem to be very confident.”