“Maybe, maybe. It is easy to sit contemptuous, señora, but you have had no dealings with the man.”
“I have had some pretty traffic with him. He is a very bold rogue, and I had ever a fondness for such men. Moreover”—her fan waved rhythmically—“I like the merry look he has. A proper man, when all is said. I shall be sorry if I hear he comes not off.”
“You will be sorry!” he ejaculated. “Oh, señora, will you lead my cousin to him, and say ‘God bless you, pirate, take my niece?’ ”
“You are a fool to ask me,” said his mother composedly. “I daresay I am as much his enemy as you are, but I have this gift, my son, that I can respect my foes. You may conjure up what nightmares of witchcraft you please; I shall not be in a heat for that. I am sure the man would laugh if he could hear you.”
He pounced on that. “Yes, señora, yes! And will you tell me that it is not Satan who prompts him to laugh? Will you tell me that a mere man laughs as this warlock does when he faces death, and sees the dead all about him? Perinat could tell a tale!”
“I make no doubt he could,” agreed Doña Beatrice. “I pray I may not have to hear him. I would stake my life all the magic this man uses is the magic of courage, and the arts you and others such as you have endowed him with. He takes a galleon: witchcraft! you cry. He sacks a town: more witchcraft! He comes into Spain on an errand of romance: foulest witchcraft of all! swear you. Well, I will tell you what I think, and I believe I am not a fool. He is English, therefore a little mad; he is a lover, therefore reckless. If he laughs it is because he is of those sort of men who will laugh though they die for it. There is all his magic.” She yawned. “I dare say he will laugh as he goes to the stake, as I fear he will go. You fatigue me, Don Diego, and put me out of all patience with myself that I bore a fool.”
“Very well, señora,” he said hotly, “It’s very well! But will you take my cousin into the country?”
“Certainly,” she said.
“At once, señora, with what speed you can make!”
She raised her eyelids momentarily. “I shall leave Madrid for Vasconosa on Tuesday, as we have concerted, my son.”
“Folly!” he cried, and took a turn about the room.
She lay back upon the daybed, completely at her ease. “Do you think so?” she said mildly. “Maybe I see more clearly. All Madrid knows that I leave for Vasconosa on Tuesday. What do you suppose Madrid would think if I was off in a sudden start? There is only one thing that can make me put forward my departure, and that is the coming of Tobar. Pray you go harry your father with these fears and spare me.” She shut her eyes as though she would go off into a doze.
He checked, pondered it, and said grudgingly: “I had not thought of that.”
“No,” she said, not troubling to open her eyes. “You lack the habit of thought, I believe. I wish you would leave me; you disturb my siesta to no purpose that I can see.”
“I pray you may not be disturbed by anything more disastrous than my presence, señora!” he said. “You choose to sneer and think yourself wiser than us all, but I will tell you this!—I shall warn my father if that devil escapes from his prison he must send the King’s men hotfoot after him to Vasconosa!”
“By all means,” agreed the lady. “Go and warn him at once.”
XVI
Upon the morning following the strange arrest King Philip was disturbed at his orisons by a secretary made overbold by the amazing news. He must needs, forgetful of time and place, blurt out to his master that El Beauvallet was taken prisoner. King Philip made no sign at all, but went on with his prayers.
The secretary flushed scarlet and drew back. King Philip finished his prayers and went his stately way to his cabinet.
He sat down at his desk there, placed his gouty foot upon the velvet stool, and pondered a document. A note was laboriously written in the margin. King Philip laid down his quill and raised his hooded eyes to the secretary. “You said something,” he stated, and folded his hands tranquilly before him.
Vasquez, still discomposed, told the news baldly. “Sire, El Beauvallet was captured at the house of Noveli last night!”
Philip thought it over for a moment. “That is not possible,” he said at last. “Explain yourself.”
The tale came tumbling out then, garbled, of course, but sufficiently arresting. Vasquez had it from Admiral Perinat that the Chevalier de Guise was none other than El Beauvallet, the terrible pirate. The Chevalier, then, was laid by the heels, and there were men in the antechamber craving an audience with his Majesty.
Philip blinked once, but seemed unmoved. “The Chevalier de Guise,” he said slowly. “His papers were in order,” he announced heavily. He looked calmly at Vasquez. “Does he admit it?” he inquired.
“No, sire, I believe not. I believe—I am sure—he sent at once to the French Ambassador to demand his protection. But Don Maxia de Perinat—”
Philip looked at his folded hands. “Perinat is a bungler,” he said. “One who blunders once may blunder twice. This seems to me a foolish tale. I will see M. de Lauvinière.”
The French Ambassador came in a moment later, unhurriedly, and made his bow. His countenance was a little troubled, but he made no haste to come to his business. Compliments passed, an idle word on some idle matter. At length Philip said: “You have come upon some urgent business, señor.
