Towards noon at last they overtook the legate’s party. They espied his mule-litter at the door of an inn in a little village some ten miles beyond the foothills of the Bussaco range. The Infante reined up sharply, a hoarse, fierce cry escaping him, akin to that of some creature of the wild when it espies its prey. Moniz put forth a hand to seize his arm. “My lord, my lord,” he cried, fearfully. “What is your purpose?” The prince looked him between the eyes, and his lips curled in a smile that was not altogether sweet. “I am going to beg Cardinal Corrado to have compassion on me,” he answered, subtly mocking, and on that he swung down from his horse, and tossed the reins to a man-at-arms. Into the inn he clanked, Moniz and Nunes following closely. He thrust aside the vintner who, not knowing him, would have hindered him, great lord though he seemed, from disturbing the holy guest who was honouring the house. He strode on, and into the room where the Cardinal with his noble nephews sat at dinner. At sight of him, fearing violence, Giannino and Pierluigi came instantly to their feet, their hands upon their daggers. But Cardinal da Corrado sat unmoved. He looked up, a smile of ineffable gentleness upon his ascetic face. “I had hoped that you would come after me, my son,” he said. “If you come a penitent, then has my prayer been heard.” “A penitent!” cried Affonso Henriques. He laughed wickedly, and plucked his dagger from its sheath. Sancho Nunes, in terror, set a detaining hand upon his prince’s arm. “My lord,” he cried in a voice that shook, “you will not strike the Lord’s anointed—that were to destroy yourself for ever.” “A curse,” said Affonso Henriques, “perishes with him that uttered it.” He could reason loosely, you see, this hot-blooded, impetuous young cutter of Gordian knots. “And it imports above all else that the curse should be lifted from my city of Coimbra.” “It shall be, my son, as soon as you show penitence and a Christian submission to the Holy Father’s will,” said the undaunted Cardinal. “God give me patience with you,” Affonso Henriques answered him. “Listen to me now, lord Cardinal.” And he leaned forward on his dagger, burying the point of it some inches into the deal table. “That you should punish me with the weapons of the Faith for the sins that you allege against me I can understand and suffer. There is reason in that, perhaps. But will you tell me what reasons there can be in punishing a whole city for an offence which, if it exists at all, is mine alone?—and in punishing it by a curse so terrible that all the consolations of religion are denied those true children of Mother Church, that no priestly office may be performed within the city, that men and women may not approach the altars of the Faith, that they must die unshriven with their sins upon them, and so be damned through all eternity? Where is the reason that urges this?” The cardinal’s smile had changed from one of benignity to one of guile.