Dominica looked towards the door, wondering who the Frenchman might be. A knot of gentlemen gathered there parted to let the newcomer pass. There was a quick, decided step; no Frenchman came in, but Sir Nicholas Beauvallet, as though upon his own quarterdeck.
Dominica almost let fall her fan; the breath caught in her throat; she stood staring, first pale, and then red, and through the mad riot in her brain ran only the one clear thought: He has come! He has come! He has come!
Across the hall he came, with that graceful, careless step she knew so well. He was brave in silk and velvet, with a neat, small ruff such as he had always worn clipping his throat about. He had a hand laid lightly on his sword-hilt, and his eyes looked straight at Dominica. She saw them fearless, with a kind of mocking challenge in their blue depths, as though they would signify “Well, did I not say that I would come?” Everything in her responded to the daring of him. Ah, what a man! Ah, what a lover for a girl! what a brave, laughing lover!
He was close now, bowing to her aunt.
“Ah, so you have come, Chevalier,” said Doña Beatrice, giving him her hand. “We shall talk a little, but later on. Let me present you to my niece, Doña Dominica de Rada y Sylva. This gentleman, my dear, is a Frenchman strayed by some good chance into Spain. The Chevalier de Guise.”
Dominica, still hardly daring to trust her eyes, saw his hand held out, and knew his gaze to be upon her. She put out her own little hand, and his long fingers closed over it. She looked down at his black head as he bent to kiss her hand; she thought if she spoke her voice must betray her agitation.
It was a real kiss pressed on her hand, no formal brush of the lips. He stood straight again, and released her slight fingers. “Señorita, I am enchanted,” he said. “But Doña Beatrice is wrong: I did not come by chance into Spain. I had a set resolve to journey here.”
Her long lashes fluttered downwards. She knew herself to be blushing. “Indeed, señor?” she said faintly.
“Such an odd resolve!” commented Doña Beatrice. “What can you hope to find here to amuse you?”
Dominica looked up to see his eyes crinkle at the corners. He addressed himself to Doña Beatrice, laughingly. “Oh, I come on a quest, dear señora,” he said. Then he seemed to become aware of Don Diego, upon Dominica’s other hand. “Well-met, señor! I give you joy of your anniversary.” The mockery in his eyes deepened. “But you are bridal, señor! bridal!”
Don Diego stiffened, but a moment after shrugged slightly at this deplorable lack of formality. “My attire does not like you, Chevalier?” he said disdainfully.
“On the contrary,” said Sir Nicholas gaily, “it reminds me of my own nuptials, which draw close.”
Dominica’s hand, slowly waving her fan to and fro, faltered a little. What a game to play with fire! Oh, he was mad indeed, divinely mad!
“I felicitate you,” said Don Diego. “Permit me to find you a partner for the coranto.”
Sir Nicholas turned. “I shall crave the hand of Doña Dominica,” he said.
Don Diego spoke before she could reply. “My cousin does not dance, señor.”
“How foolish!” said Doña Beatrice, turning her head. “Let the Chevalier lead you out, my dear. There are no men to rival Frenchmen at dancing.”
“If you will dance, cousin, let mine be the honour of leading you out,” said Don Diego.
Sir Nicholas had taken her hand; the pressure of his fingers was insistent. “Ah, but I was before you, Don Diego,” he said.
Don Diego looked angrily, and took a quick step forward, as though he would snatch Dominica’s hand from its resting-place. His rose dropped unheeded to the ground. “Cousin, I understood you would not dance!”
“You have let fall your pretty flower,” Sir Nicholas pointed out gently.
Don Diego turned with an ugly look in his face, forgetting his duty to a guest. His angry stare met an amused glance from cool blue eyes that did not waver. Sir Nicholas still held Dominica’s hand, but one eyebrow was quizzically raised, as though to say: “Do you wish to quarrel? Say but the word!”
Doña Beatrice interposed to put an end to an awkward moment. Her fan brushed Dominica’s shoulder. “Be advised by me, my dear, and go with the Chevalier. Resolutions are made to be broken only.”
Don Diego seemed to recollect himself. He recovered his sosiego and bowed. “I am less fortunate than the Chevalier, cousin. I shall ask for your hand later in the evening.”
“As you please, cousin.” Dominica sent a fleeting glance upwards to Beauvallet’s face, and dropped her eyes again. Obedient to the pull on her hand she went with him across the hall to the ballroom.
“God pity me, I have borne a fool!” sighed Doña Beatrice. “You do not go well to work, my poor son.”
“She did it to flout me!” he said hotly.
“If she did it promises very well,” she replied. “But when a man like the Chevalier craves a boon there are few women will not grant it. For where he craves he might take, look you.”
“He is insufferable!” Diego said. “My sword itches to taste his blood.”
Doña Beatrice smiled more broadly. “I dare say the Chevalier has some skill with swords,” she said. “I do not think—no, I do not think that you would be well advised to send him a challenge.”
Don Diego stayed glooming a moment. “One would think you wanted her to go with him,” he complained.
“I did,” said his mother imperturbably. “The girl saw a very personable man, with more charm in his lightest smile, my poor son, than any
