“Oh, señorita, it was a miracle!” said the prim girl fervently. “But tell me, what is he like, this terrible man?”
“Indeed, señorita, there is very little to tell,” said Dominica, impatient. “He is a man like other men. I observed nothing remarkable in him.”
“I had heard,” said the girl, rather disappointed, “that he was very handsome, and we know that he is daring.”
“He is well enough,” said Dominica. “I think you in Spain have made too great a figure of him. He is nothing above the ordinary.”
The black head turned; to her horror she saw that that left eyebrow had flown up. God send the man Beauvallet was talking to suspected nothing! She turned her shoulder resolutely. Was this a time to send a jesting look at her?
The prim girl, baulked of excitement, began to talk of Santiago, and asked more questions. Dominica was rescued at length by Don Rodriguez, who put a hand on her arm, and smiled at her in the deprecating way he used. “There is one present, dear child, whom you would be glad to meet, perchance. One who was lately at Santiago, and whom I think you know.” He lowered his voice mysteriously. “In ill-odour just now, alas, but you will not regard it,” he said, leading her across the room. “He lost his ship—but you would know all that, for it must have chanced before you came home.” He was making for a group by the door, unconscious of the rising tide of foreboding in his niece. “One cannot but feel for him, but he has been much blamed. In ill-odour at Court, my dear, so you will be wary of how you speak of such matters.”
A chill was spreading over her. “Who is it?” she said levelly.
“Did I not say? It is Don Maxia de Perinat, child. He who was sent to chase El Beauvallet, and—and failed. He tells me that he knew you and your poor father.” He coughed, and went on hurriedly. “Of course you will not mention the disaster.”
Perinat! Perinat in Spain, and in this very house! Perinat, whom she had last seen wild-eyed and stuttering, raving of an English devil who laughed, and cracked a jest in the heat of battle. Every instinct strained to shriek the news to Beauvallet, and tell him to go, go before this looming peril could catch him up. Involuntarily she turned her head to seek him in the crowd. She saw only the back of his black head, the width of his shoulders. And then, while her thoughts raced, she was aware of Perinat bowing over her hand, and offering condolences for the death of her father.
She shook off the gathering numbness that threatened to overcome her, and forced herself to answer, to go on talking, to keep him by her at all costs, away from Sir Nicholas, so unconscious at the other end of the room of this imminent danger. She hardly knew what she said; her mind was casting this way and that for the means of warning Beauvallet. She stood before Perinat, with a forlorn hope of shielding Beauvallet from his notice, and for the only time in her life was glad to see her cousin approaching. She presented him to Perinat at once, hoping that they would fall into conversation and give her time to slip away to Sir Nicholas’ side.
Don Diego was bowing; Perinat had a polite word for the son of an old acquaintance. And then, in a momentary lull, came the sound of Beauvallet’s gay voice, crisp and clear, and fatally carrying.
Perinat’s head was jerked up instantly; he broke off in the middle of a sentence. “Madre de Dios, I should know that voice! What witchcraft is this?” he said hoarsely.
Dominica began to talk feverishly, but she was not heeded. Perinat had stepped quickly forward, and was staring at Beauvallet’s profile, like one who could not believe his eyes.
Sir Nicholas was talking to his Andalusian friend. Numb with horror Dominica saw the characteristic movement of the back-flung head, and heard the gay laugh that could never be forgotten.
“Ah!” The sound, hardly more than a gasp, came from Don Maxia. His hand was fumbling at his sword hilt. “Sangre de Dios, am I in my senses? Do I dream? El Beauvallet!”
The name was shouted. Sir Nicholas swung round of instinct, but in this was nothing singular. There was scarcely a man present who did not spin about at the sound of that dread name flung across the room.
Dominica saw the quick glance sweep the group by the door. Sir Nicholas saw Perinat standing livid and staring, but only the veriest flash of recognition came into his eyes.
Don Rodriguez was bewildered, as was everyone, but found his tongue sooner than the rest. “What do you say, Perinat? Are you mad? Who—what—?”
“It is he! It is Beauvallet—Beauvallet’s self, I tell you! Sangre de Dios, do I not know him? Have I not cause? Shall I ever forget that face, or that laugh, body of God! Ah, dog! ah, villain! At last, at last!”
The startled whisper, “El Beauvallet, El Beauvallet!” ran round the room; Perinat’s shaking hand pointed straight at Sir Nicholas. Amazed faces peered; those near Beauvallet fell back suddenly, and more than one hand felt for a sword hilt. Only Sir Nicholas stood unmoved, an eyebrow raised in mild surprise, a look of interrogation in his face.
“But—but that is the Chevalier de Guise!” someone said in a dazed voice. “How should El Beauvallet be in Spain?”
“I tell you it is he! I, Maxia de Perinat, who have fought with him hand to hand!” Perinat’s words seemed to jostle
