“I don’t know. It may not be wise. I must consider.” He flung away in deepest perturbation, leaving her with a sense that life was slipping from her. That late September evening, as she sat stricken in her room, hoping against hope for at least another glimpse of him, Dona Maria de Grado brought word that Espinosa was even then in the convent in Frey Miguel’s cell. Fearful lest he should be smuggled thence without her seeing him, And careless of the impropriety of the hour—it was already eight o’clock and dusk was falling—she at once dispatched Roderos to the friar, bidding him bring Espinosa to her in the parlour. The friar obeyed, and the lovers—they were no less by now—came face to face in anguish. “My lord, my lord,” she cried, casting all prudence to the winds, “what is decided?” “That I leave in the morning,” he answered. “To go where?” She was distraught. “Where?” He shrugged. “To Valladolid at first, and then... where God pleases.” “And when shall I see you again?” “When... when God pleases.” “Oh, I am terrified... if I should lose you... if I should never see you more!” She was panting, distraught. “Nay, lady, nay,” he answered. “I shall come for you when the time is ripe. I shall return by All Saints, or by Christmas at the latest, and I shall bring with me one who will avouch me.” “What need any to avouch you to me?” she protested, on a note of fierceness. “We belong to each other, you and I. But you are free to roam the world, and I am caged here and helpless...” “Ah, but I shall free you soon, and we’ll go hence together. See.” He stepped to the table. There was an ink-horn, a box of pounce, some quills, and a sheaf of paper there. He took up a quill, and wrote with labour, for princes are notoriously poor scholars: “I, Don Sebastian, by the Grace of God King of Portugal, take to wife the most serene Dona ulna of Austria, daughter of the most serene Prince, Don John of Austria, by virtue of the dispensation which I hold from two pontiffs.” And he signed it—after the manner of the Kings of Portugal in all ages—“El Rey”—the King. “Will that content you, lady?” he pleaded, handing it to her. “How shall this scrawl content me?” “It is a bond I shall redeem as soon as Heaven will permit.” Thereafter she fell to weeping, and he to protesting, until Frey Miguel urged him to depart, as it grew late. And then she forgot her own grief, and became all solicitude for him, until naught would content her but she must empty into his hands her little store of treasure—a hundred ducats and such jewels as she possessed, including a gold watch set with diamonds and a ring bearing a cameo portrait of King Philip, and last of all a portrait of herself, of the size of a playing-card.