“Possible! Possible!” said Philip. “Yet this might well be a ruse. We have to consider all points, Don Cristobal. What said the Chevalier?”
Don Cristobal smiled rather ruefully. “The Chevalier, sire, exhibited a very natural anger, and—in fact, sire, he demands—he is high in his tone—that strict search should be made for the fellow. He would have us send after the man to the Frontier, for he is left penniless. The Chevalier, sire, was particularly enraged at the loss of his sword. He started up, sire, and demanded to know whether the servant had made off with this piece, and upon being told that it was not to be found, he seemed like to fly into a very real passion. The next thing he asked, sire, was whether his papers, too, were gone, and it seemed to me—I was watching him closely—that he showed great relief when I could assure him that they were safe.”
“Ah, the papers were left?” Philip asked.
“They were discovered, sire, in the inner pocket of a mandilion. I judged that the man had overlooked them in his haste. A wallet was found on the floor with a few odd bills in it, but nothing more. The Chevalier’s linen was overturned as though the servant had sought amongst it for something, and we found sundry other articles of raiment.”
“Let these be taken to the Chevalier,” said Philip. “This is a delicate matter, señor, needing our careful judgment.”
There was the sound of a softly opened door behind him. A man came into the room from some inner room behind Philip, a man in a priest’s gown. Philip’s thin lips parted in a smile that showed teeth that were yellow and rather pointed. “You are come opportunely, Father.”
The priest had gone unobtrusively to the window, but he turned at Philip’s words, and came nearer to the King’s chair. He was Father Allen, an English Jesuit, never far from Philip’s side. “You have need of me, sire?”
“I may have need of you, Father,” Philip answered cautiously. “There is a man held in ward, Father, who is accused of being the freebooter, Beauvallet.”
“I have heard something of this, sire, from Frey Luis.”
“Do you know this Beauvallet, Father?” asked Philip directly.
“I regret, sire, no. I knew his father by sight, but the sons by hearsay only.”
“A pity.” Philip’s smile died. He regarded the opposite wall for a while. “I do not see what El Beauvallet does in Spain,” he said, and awaited enlightenment.
It came from Porres. “The tale is very strange, sire, almost incredible. It is said—by the lady’s cousin—that El Beauvallet came into Spain to carry off Doña Dominica de Rada y Sylva.”
Philip looked at him. It was plain that such a mad exploit was beyond his Catholic Majesty’s comprehension.
Father Allen spoke from behind the King’s chair. “Beauvallet had no need to come into Spain if that had been his purpose.”
Philip nodded. “That is true. This is a very foolish tale,” he said. “Moreover, it is impossible for such a man as El Beauvallet to enter into Spain.”
“As to that, sire”—Father Allen lifted his shoulders—“there might be ways of compassing it, if the man were bold enough.”
A new voice spoke from the door behind Philip. “A man in league with the powers of darkness could do it.” A monk of the Dominican order had come in quietly. His cowl partly shaded his face, but his eyes shone dark and intense. He came further into the room. “I have thought on this, sire.” He sighed heavily. “Who can say what such a man might do?”
The faintest hint of a contemptuous smile flitted across Father Allen’s lips, but he said nothing.
“Consider, sire, what dreadful errand this man may have come upon,” insisted Frey Luis in a hushed voice.
Philip brought his gaze round to the Frey. “What errand?” he asked, puzzled.
“Sire, how shall we say that El Beauvallet would hesitate to seek the life of even your Majesty?” Frey Luis folded his hands in the wide sleeves of his habit and fixed his eyes on Philip.
Philip moved a paper on his desk. His brain turned this over and detected a flaw. “If such were his errand, Frey Luis, he would have made the attempt when I saw him in this room with only yourself present,” he said.
“Sire, who knows in what cunning ways Satan goes to work?”
Don Cristobal interposed. “I do not think that this man is such a one, sire. I could more readily believe, from what I have seen of the man, in Don Diego de Carvalho’s explanation.”
But King Philip was not at all inclined to believe in it. His matter-of-fact mind discarded it as the wildest of suppositions. “A test might be made,” he mused. “A simple Mass, perhaps.”
Don Cristobal coughed. The dull eyes travelled to his face. “You were about to say, señor?”
“The Chevalier, sire, has made the suggestion himself.”
Philip looked at the Jesuit. Father Allen spoke smoothly. “That is clever of him,” he said. “But you should know, sire, that it is not so long since the Beauvallets were of the True Faith. It is almost sure that this man would pass such a test triumphantly.”
Frey Luis spoke again. “There are tests the Holy Inquisition would impose that would be harder to pass. We have to think of the soul, sire. Let this man be given over to the infinite compassion of the Church.”
Philip laid his hand on the table. “A heretic of any nation, Frey Luis, belongs to the Church. I am not so undutiful a son of Christ as to withhold from the
