Fair Margaret

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIX, Issue 21, 23 November 1907, Page 17

Fair Margaret

By

Rider Haggard

CHAPTER XIX. BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS. BETTY DENE was not a woman afflicted with fears or apprehensions. Born of good parents, but in poverty, for six-and-twenty years she had fought her own way in a rough world and made the best of circumstances. Healthy, fullblooded, tough, affectionate, romantic, but honest in her way, she was well fitted to meet the ups and downs of life, to keep her head above the waters of a turbulent age, and to pay back as much as she received from man or woman. Y’et those long hours that she passed alone in the high turret chamber, waiting till they summoned her to play the part of a false bride, were the worst that she had ever spent. She knew that her position was, in a sense, shameful, and like to end in tragedy, and, now that she faced it in cold blood, began to wonder why she had chosen so to do. She had fallen in love with this Spaniard almost at first sight, though it is true that this had happened to her before with other men. Then he had played his part with tier, till, quite deceived, she gave all her heart to him in good earnest, believing in her infatuation that, notwithstanding the difference of their place and rank, lie uesired to make her his wife for her own sake. Afterwards came that bitter day of disillusion when she learned, as Inez had said to Castell, that she was but a stalking heifer used for the taking of the white swan, her cousin and mistress, that day when she had been beguiled by the letter which was still hid in her garments, and for her pains heard herself called a fool to tier face. Tn her heart she had sworn to be avenged upon Morelia then, and now the hour had come in which to fulfil her oath and play him back trick for cruel trick. Did she still love the man? She could not say. He was pleasing to her as he had always been, and when that is so women forgive much. This was certain, however — love was not her guide tonight. Was it vengeance then that led her on? Perhaps; at least she longed to be able to say to him, “See what craft lies hid even in the bosom of an outwitted fool.”

Yet she would not have done it for vengeance’s sake alone, or rather she would have paid herself in some other fashion. No, her real reason was that she must discharge the debt due to Margaret and Peter, and to Castell who had sheltered her for years. She it was who had brought them into all this woe, and it seemed but just that she should bring them out again, even at the cost of her own life and womanly dignity. Or, perchance, all three of these powers drove her on. love for the man if it still lingered—the desire to be avenged upon him, and the desire to snatch his prey from out his maw. At least she had set the game, and she would phty it out to its end. however awful that might be. The sun sank, the darkness closed about her, and she wondered whether ever again she would see the dawn. Her brave heart quailed a little, and she gripped the dagger hilt beneath her splendid, borrowed robe, thinking to herself that perhaps it might be wisest to drive it into her own breast, and not wait until a baulked madman did that, office for her. Yet not so, for it is always time to die when one must.

A knock came at the door, and her courage, which had sunk so low, burned up again within her. Oh! she would teach this Spaniard that the Englishwoman. whom he had made Itelieve was his desired mistress, could be his master.

At any rate, he should hear the truth before the end. She unlocked the door, and Inez entered bearing a lamp, by the light of which she scanned her with her quiet eyes. “The bridegroom waits,” she said slowly, that Betty might understand, “and sends me to lead you to him. Are you afraid?” “Not I,” answered Betty. “But tell me, how will the thing be done?” “He meets us in the ante-room to that hall which is used as a chapel, and there on behalf of the household I give you

both the cups of wine. Be sure that you drink of that which I hold in my left hand, passing the cup up beneath your veil, so as not to show your face, and speak no word, lest he should recognise your voice. Then we shall go into the chapel, where the priest Henriques waits, also the household. But that hall is great, and the lamps are feeble, so none will know you there. By this time also the drugged wine will have begun to work jupon Morelia's brain, wherefore, provided that you use a low voice, you may safely say, ‘I, Betty wed thee. Carlos,’ not ‘I. Maragaret. wed thee.’ Then, when it is over he will lead you away to the chambers prepared for you, where, if there is any virtue in my wine, he will sleep sound to-night, that is, when the priest has given me the marriagelines. whereof I will hand you one copy and keep the others. Afterwards ” and she shrugged her shoulders. “What becomes of you?” asked Betty,

when she had fully mastered these instructions. “Oh, I and the priest start to-night for a ride together to Seville, where his money awaits him; ill company for a woman who means henceforth to be honest and rich, but better than none. Perhaps we shall meet again there, or perhaps we shall not; at least, you know where to seek me and the others, at the house of the Senor Bernaldez. Now it is time. Are you ready to be made a marchioness of Spain?” “Of course,” answered Betty coolly, and they started.

Through the empty halls and corridors they went, and oh I surely no Eastern plot that had been conceived in them was quite so bold and desperate as theirs. They reached the ante-chamber to the chapel, and took their stand outside of the circle of light that fell from its banging lamps. Presently a door opened. and through it came Morelia, attended by two of his secretaries. He was splendidly arrayed in his usual garb of black velvet, and about his neck hung chains of gold and jewels, and to his breast were fastened the glittering stars and orders pertaining to his rank. Never, or so thought Betty, had Morelia seemed more magnificent and handsome. He was happy also, who was about to drink of that cup of joy which he so earnestly desired. Yes. his face showed that he was happy, and Betty, noting it. felt remorse stirring in her breast. Low he bowed before her, while she curtseyed to him, bending her tall and graceful

form till her knee almost touched the ground. Then he came to her and whispered in her ear: “Most sweet, most beloved,” he said, “I thank heaven that has brought me to this joyous hour by many a rough and dangerous path. Most dear, again 1 beseech you to forgive all the sorrow’ and the ill that I have brought upon you. remembering that it was done for your adored sake, that I love you as woman has been seldom loved, you. and you only, and that to you. and you only, will I cling until my death’s day. Oh ! do not tremble and shrink, for I swear that no woman in Spain shall have a better or a more loyal lord. You I will cherish alone, tor you I will strive by night and day’ to lift you to great honour and satisfy your every wish. Many and pleasant may the years be that we shall spend side by side, and peaceful our ends when at last we lay ns down side by side to sleep awhile and wake again in heaven, whereof the shadow’ lies on me to-night. Remembering the past. 1 do not ask much of you—as yet; still, if you are minded to give me a bridal gift that I shall prize above crowns or empires, say that you forgive me all that I have done amiss, and in token, lift that veil of yours and kiss me on the lips.”

Betty’ heard, and trembled. This was a trial that she had not foreseen. Yet it must be faeed. for speak she dared not. Therefore, gathering up her courage, and remembering that the light was at her back, after a little pause, as though of modesty and reluctance, she lifted the pearl - embroidered veil, and. bending forward beneath its shadow, suffered Morelia to kiss her on the lips. It was over, the veil had fallen again, and the man suspected nothing. “I am a good artist,” thought Inez to herself, “and that woman acts better than the wooden Peter. Scarcely could I have done it so well myself.” Then, the jealousy and hate that she could not control glittering in her soft eyes, for she too had loved this man. and well. Inez took up the golden cups that had been prepared, and. gliding forward, beautiful in her broidered; Eastern robe, fell upon her knee- and : held them to the bridegroom and the bride. Morelia took that from her right hand, arid Betty that from her left, nor. intoxicated as he was already with that first kiss of love, did he pause to note the evil purpose which was written on the face of his discarded slave. Betty, passing the cup beneath her veil, touched it with her lips and returned it to Inez; but Morelia, exclaiming, “I drink to you. sweet bride, most fair and adored of women,” drained his to the dregs, and cast it back to Inez as a gift in such fashion that the red wine which clung to its rim stained her white robes like a splash of blood. Humbly she bowed, humbly she lifted the precious vessel from the floor; but when she arose again there was a triumph in her eyes —not hate. Now’ Morelia took his bride's hand. and. followed by his gentlemen and Inez, walked to the curtains that were drawn as they came into the great hall beyond, where had gathered all his household, perhaps a hundred of them. Between their bowing ranks iney passed, a stately pair. and. whilst sweet voices sang behind some hidden screen, walked onward to the altar, where stood the waiting priest. They kneeled down upon t he gold embroidered cushions while the office of the Church was road over them. The ring was set upon Betty’s hand—scarce, it would seem, could he find her finger—the man took the woman to wife the woman took the man for husbani.

His voice was thick, and her was very low; of all that listening crowd none could hear the names they spoke. It was over. The priest bowed and blessed them. They signed some papers, there by nie light of the altar candles. Father Henriques filled in certain names and signed them also, then, casting sand upon them, placed them in the outstretched hand of Inez, who, although Morelia never seemed to notice, gave one to the bride, and thrust the other two into the bosom of her robe. Then both she and the priest kissed the hands of the marquis and his wife, and asked his leave to be gone. He bowed his head vaguely, and —if any had been there to listen—within ten short minutes they might have heard two horses galloping hard toward the Seville gate. Now, escorted by pages and torchbearers, the new-wed pair repassed those dim and stately halls, the bride, veiled mysterious, fateful; the bridegroom, empty-eyed, like one who wanders in his sleep. Thus they reached their chamber, and its carved doors shut behind them. It was morning when the servingwomen who waited without that room were summoned, by the sound of a silver gong, within it. Two of them entered and were met by Betty, no longer veiled, but wrapt in a loose robe, who said to them: “My lord the marquis still sleeps. Come, help me dress and make ready his bath and food.” The women stared at her, for now that she had washed the paint from her face they knew well that this was the Senora Betty and not the Dona Margaret, whom, they had understood, the marquis was to marry. But she chid them sharply in her bad Spanish, bidding them be swift, as she would be robed before her lord the marquis should awake. So they obeyed her, and when she was ready she went with them into the great hall where many of the household were gathered, waiting to do homage to the new-wed pair, and greeted them all blushing and smiling, saying that doubtless the marquis would be among them soon, and commanding them meanwhile to go about their several tasks. So well did Betty play her part, indeed, that, although they also were bewildered, none questioned her place or authority, who remembered that after all they had not been told by their lord himself which of these two English ladies he meant to marry. Also, she distributed among the meaner of them a present of money on her husband’s behalf and her own, and then ate food and drank some wine before them all, pledging them, and receiving their salutations and good wishes. When all this was done, still smiling, Betty returned to the marriage-chamber, closing its door behind her, sat her down on a chair near the bed, and waited for the worst struggle of all—that struggle on which hung her life. See! Morelia stirred. He sat up, gazing about him and rubbing his brow. Presently his eyes lit upon Betty, seated stern and upright in her high chair. She rose and, coming to him, kissed him and called him “Husband,” and. still halfasleep, he kissed her back. Then she sat down again in her chair and watched his face. It changed, ami changed again Wonder. fear, amaze, bewilderment, flitted over it. till at last he said in English: “Betty, where is my wife?” “Here,” answered Betty. He stared at her. “Nay, I mean the Dona Margaret, your cousin and my lady, whom I wed last night. And how come you here? I thought that you had left Granada.” Betty looked astonished. “I do not understand you,” she answered. “It was my cousin Margaret who left Granada. I stayed here to be married to you, as you arranged with me through Inez.” His jaw dropped. “Arranged with you through Inez! Mother of Heaven! what do you mean?” “Mean?” she answered—“l mean what 1 say. Surely”—and she rose in indignation —“you have never dared to try to play some new trick upon me?” “Trick!” muttered Morelia. “What says the woman? Is all this a dream, or am I mad ?” “A dream. I think. Yes. it must be a dream, since certainly it was to no madman that I was wed last night. Look,” and she held before him that writing of marriage signed by the priest, by him. and by herself, which stated that Carlos. Marquis of Morelia, was on such a date,

at Granada, duly married to the Senora Elizabeth Dene, of London, in England. He read it twice, then sank back gasping; while Betty hid away the parchment in her bosom. Then presently he seemed to go mad indeed. He raved, he cursed, he ground his teeth, he looked round for a sword to kill her or himself, but could find none. And all the while Betty sat still and gazed at him like some living fate. At length he was weary, and her turn came. “Listen,” she said. “Yonder in London you promised to marry me; I have it hidden away, and in your own writing. By agreement I fled with you to Spain. By the mouth of your messenger and former love this marriage was arranged between us, I receiving your messages to me, and sending back mine to you, since you explained that for reasons of your own you did not wish -o speak of these matters before my cousin Margaret, and could not wed me until she and her father and her lover were gone from Granada. So I bade them farewell, and stayed here alone -or love of you, as I fled from London for love of you, and last night we were united, as all your household know, for but now I have eaten with them and received their good wishes. And now you dare —you dare to tell me, that I, your wife—l, who have sacrificed everything for you, I, the Marchioness of Morelia, am not your wife. Well, go, say it outside this chamber, and bear your very slaves cry ‘Shame’ upon you. Go, say it to your king and your bishops, aye, and to his Holiness the Pope himself, and listen to their answer. Why, great as you are, and rich as you are, they will hale you to a mad-house or a prison.” Morelia listened, rocking himself to and fro, upon the bed, then with an oath sprang towards her, to be met by a dag-ger-point glinting in his eyes. “Hear me again,” she said as he shrank back from that cold steel. “I am no slave and no weakling; you shall not murder me or thrust me away. I am your wife and your equal, aye, and stronger than you in body and in mind, and T will have my rights in the face of God and man.” “Certainly,” he said, with a kind of unwilling admiration —“certainly you arc no weakling. Certainly, also, you have paid back all you owe me with a .Tew’s interest. Or, mayhap, you arc not so clever as I think, but just a strongminded fool, and it is that accursed Inez who has settled her debts. Oh! to think of it,” and he shook his fist in the air, “to think that T believed myself married to the Dona Margaret, and find you in her place—you!” “Be silent,” she said, “you man without shame, who first fly at the throat of your new-wedded wife and then insult her by saying that you wish you were married to another woman. Be silent, or I will unlock the door and call your own people and repeat your monstrous talk to them.” And she drew herself to her full height and stood over him on the bed. Morelia, his first rage spent, looked at her reflectively, and not without a certain measure of homage. “I think,” he remarked, “that if he did not happen to be in love with another woman and to believe that he had married her, you, my good Betty, would make a useful wife to any man who wished to get on in the world. I understood you to say that the door is locked, and if I might hazard a guess, you have the key, as also you happen to have a dagger. Well, T find the air in this plaee close, and I want to go out.” “Where to?” asked Betty. “Let us say, to join Inez.” “What,” she asked, “would you already be running after that woman again? Do you already forget that you are married?” “It seems that I am not to be allowed to forget it. Now’, let us bargain. I wish to leave Granada for a while, and without scandal. What are your terms? Remember, that there are two to which I will not consent. I ill not stop here with you. and you shall net accompany me. Remember, also, that, although you bold the dagger at present, it is not wise of you to try to push this jest too far.” “As you did when you decoyed me on board the San Antonio,” said Betty. “Well, our honeymoon has not begun too sweetly, and I do not mind if you go away for a while — to look for Inez. Swear now that you mean me no harm, and that you will not plot my death or disgrace, or in any way interfere with

my liberty or position here in Granada. Swear it on the Rood.” And she took down a silver crucifix that hung upon the wall over the bed and handed it to him. For she knew Morelia’s superstitions, and that if once he swore upcn this symbol he dare not break his oath. “And if I will not swear?” he asked sullenly. “Then,” she answered, “you stop here until you do, you who are anxious to be gone. I have eaten food this morning, you have not; I have a dagger, you have none; and, being as we are, I am sure that on one will venture to disturb us until Inez and your friend the priest have gone further than you can follow.” “Very well, I will swear,” he said, and he kissed the crucifix and threw it down. “You can stop here and rule my house in Granada, and I will do you no mischief, nor trouble you in any way. But if you come out of Granada, then we cross swords.” “You mean that you intend to leave this city? Then, here is paper and ink. Be so good as to sign an order to the stewards of your estates, within the territories of the Moorish king, to pay all their revenue to me during your absence, and to your servants to obey me in everything.”

“it is easy to see that you were brought up in the house of a Jew merchant,” said Morelia, biting his pen and considering this woman, who, whether she were hawk or pigeon, knew so well how to feather her nest, “Well, if I grant you this position, and these revenues, will you leave me alone and cease to press other claims upon me?” Now Betty, bethinking her of those papers that Inez had carried away with her, and that Castell and Margaret would know well how to use them if there w’ere need, bethinking her also that if she pushed him too far at the beginning she might die suddenly as folk sometimes did in Granada, answered: “It is much to ask of a deluded woman, but I still have some pride, and will not thrust myself in where it seems I am not wanted. Therefore, so be it. Till you seek me or send for me, T will not seek you so long as you keep your bargain. Now write the paper, sign it, and eall in your secretaries to witness the signature.” “In whose favour must I word it?” he asked. “In that of the Marquessa of Morelia,” she answered, and he, seeing a loophole in the words, obeyed her, since if she were not his wife this writing would have no value. Somehow he must be rid of this woman. Of course, he might cause her to be killed; but even in Granada people could not kill one to whom they had seemed to be just married without questions being asked. Moreover. Betty had friends, and he had enemies who would certainly ask them if she vanished away. No, he would sign the paper - and fight the case afterwards, for he had no time to lose. Margaret had slipped away from him, and if once she escaped from Spain he knew that he would never see her more. For aught he knew, she might already have escaped or be married to Peter Brome. The very thought of it filled him with madness. There had been a conspiracy against him; he was outwitted, robbed, befooled. Well, hope still remained — and vengeance. He could still fight Peter, and perhaps kill him. He could hand over Castell, the Jew, to the Inquisition. He eould find a way to deal with the priest Henriques and the woman Inez, and, perhaps, if fortune favoured him he could get Margaret back into his power. Oh! yes, he would sign anything if only thereby he was set at liberty and freed for a while from this servant who called herself his wife, this strongminded, strong-bodied, clever Englishwoman. of whom he had thought to make a tool, and who had made a tool of him. So Betty dictated, and he wrote; yes, it had come to this—she dictated and he wrote, and signed too. The order was comprehensive. It gave power to the most honourable Marquessa of Morelia to act for him, her husband, in all things during his absence from Granada. It commanded that all rents and profits due to him should be paid to her. and that all his servants and dependants should obey her as though she were himself, and that her receipt should be as good as his receipt. When the paper was written, and Betty had spelt it over carefully to see that there was no omission or mistake, she unlocked the door, struck upon the

gong, and summoned the secretaries to witness their lord’s signature to a settlement. Presently they came, bowing and offering many felicitations, which to himself Morelia vowed he would remember against them. “I have to go a journey,” he said. “Witness my signature to this document, which provides for the carrying on of my household and the disposal of my property during my absence.” They stared and bowed. “Read it aloud first,” said Betty, “so that my lord and husband may be sure that there is no mistake.” One of them obeyed, but before ever he had finished the furious Morelia shouted to them from the bed: “Have done and witness, then go, order me horses and an escort, for I ride at once.” So they witnessed in a great hurry and left the room. Betty left with them, holding the paper in her hand, and when sne reached the large hall where the household were gathered waiting to greet their lord, she commanded one of the secretaries to read it aloud to all of them, also to translate it into the Moorish tongue that everyone might understand. Then she hid it away with the marriage lines, and. seating herself in the midst of the household, ordered them to prepare to receive the most noble marquis. They had not long to wait, for presently he came out of the room like a bull into the arena, whereon Betty rose and curtseyed to him, and at her word all his servants bowed themselves down in the Eastern fashion. For a moment he paused, again like the bull when he sees the picadors and is about to charge. Then he thought better of it. and, with a muttered curse, strode past them. Ten minutes later, for the third time within twenty-four hours, horses galloped from the castle and through the Seville gate. “Friends,” said Betty in her awkward Spanish, when she knew that he had gone, “a sad thing has happened to my husband, the marquis. The woman Inez, whom it seems he trusted very much, has departed, stealing a treasure that he valued above everything on earth, and so I, his new-made wife, am left desolate while he tries to find her.” CHAPTER XX. ISABELLA OF SPAIN. On the afternoon following his first visit, Castell’s agent, Bernaldez, arrived again at the prison of the Hermandad at Seville, accompanied by a tailor, a woman, and a chest full of clothes. The governor ordered these two persons to wait while the garments were searched under his own eye, but Bernaldez he permitted to be led at once to the prisoners. As soon as he was with them he said: “Your marquis has been married fast enough.” “How do vou know that?” asked Castell. “From the woman Inez, who arrived with the priest last night, and gave me the certificates of his union with Betty Dene signed by himself. I have not brought them with me lest I should be searched, when they might have been taken away; but Inez has come disguised as a sempstress, so show no surprise when you see her, if she is admitted. Perhaps she will be able to tell the Dona Margaret something of what passed if she is allowed to fit her robes alone. After that she must lie hidden for fear of the vengeance of Morelia; but I shall know where to put my hand upon her if she is wanted. You will all of you be brought before the queen to morrow, and then I, who shall be there, will produce the writings.” Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the governor appeared, and with him the tailor and Inez, who curtseyed and glanced at Margaret out of the corners of her soft eyes, looking at them all as though with curiosity, like one who had never seen or heard of them before. When the dresses had been produced, Margaret asked whether she might be allowed to try them on with the woman in her own chamber, as she had not been measured for them. The governor answered that as both the sempstress and the robes had been searched, there was no objection, so the two of them retired. Inez with her arms full of garments. “Tell me all about it,” whispered Mar-

garet as soon as the door was closed. “I die to hear your story.” So, while she fitted the clothes, since in that place they could never be sure but that they were watched through some secret loopholes, Inez, with her mouth full of aloe thorns, which those of the trade used as pins, told her everything down to the time of her escape from Granada. When she came to that part of the tale where the false bride had lifted her veil and kissed the bridegroom, Margaret gasped in her amaze. “Oh! how could she do it?” she said. “I should have fainted first.” “She has a good courage, that Betty—turn to the light, please, Senora —I could not have acted better myself—l think it is a little high on the left shoulder. He never guessed a thing, the besotted fool, and that was before 1 gave him the wine, for he wasn’t likely to guess much afterwards. Did the senora say it was tight under the arm? Well, perhaps a little, but this stuff stretches. What I want to know’ is, what happened afterwards? Your cousin is the bull that I put my money on: I believe sne will clear the ring. A woman with a nerve of steel; had I as much I should have been the Marchioness of Morelia long ago, or there would be another marquis by now. There, the sit of the skirt is perfect; the senora’s beautiful figure looks more beautiful in it than ever. Well, whoever lives will learn all about it, and it is no use worrying. Meanwhile, Bernaldez has paid me the money—and a handsome sum, too—so you needn’t thank me. I only worked for hire—and hate. Now’ 1 am going to lie low, as I don’t want to get my throat cut, but he can find me if 1 am really needed. “Ine priest? Oh, he is safe enough. We made him sign a receipt for his cash. Also, I believe that he has got his post as a secretary to the Inquisition, and began his duties at once as they were snort-handed, torturing Jews and heretics, you know, and stealing their goods, both of which occupations will exactly suit him. I rode with him all the way to Seville, and he tried to make love to me, the slimy knave, but I paid him out,” and Inez smiled at some pleasant recollection. “Still, I did not quarrel with him outright, as he may come in useful. Who knows? There’s the governor calling me. One moment, Excellency, only one moment. “Yes, Senora, w.— those few alterations the dress will be perfect. You shall have it back to-night without fail, and 1 can cut the otners that you have been pleased to order from the same pattern. Oh! I thank you, Senora, you are too good to a poor girl, and,” in a whisper, “the Mother of God have you in Her guard, and send that Peter has improved in his love-making!” and, half hidden in garments, Inez bowed herself out of the room through the door which the governor had already opened. About nine o’clock on the following morning one of the gaolers came to summon Margaret and her father to be led before the court. Margaret asked anxiously if the Senor Brome was coming too, but the man replied that he knew nothing of the Senor Brome, as he was in one of the cells for dangerous criminals, which he did not serve. So forth they went, dressed in their new clothes, which were as fine as money could buy, and in the latest Seville fashion, and were conducted to the courtyard. Here, to her joy, Margaret saw Peter waiting for them under guard, and dressed also in the Christian garments which they had begged might be supplied to him at their cost. She sprang to his side, none hindering her, and, forgetting her bashfulness, suffered him to embrace her before them all, asking him how he had fared since they were parted. “None too well,” answered Peter gloomily, “who did not know if we should ever meet again; also, my prison is underground, where but little light comes through a grating, and there are rats in it which will not let a man sleep, so I must lie awake the most of the night thinking of you. Rut where go we now?” “To lie put uj>on our trial before the queen. 1 think. Hold my hand and walk close beside me, but do not stare at me so hard. Is augnt wrong with my dress?” “Nothing,” answered Peter. “I stare because you look so beautiful in it. Could you not have worn a veil? Doubtless there are more marquises about this court.” "Only the Moors wear veils, Peter, nnd now we are Christians again. Listen —I think that none of them understand English. I have seen Inez, who asked

after you very tenderly—nay, do not blush, it is unseemly in a man. Have you seen her, also? No—well, she escaped from Granada as she planned, and Betty is married to the marquis.” “It will never hold good,” answered Peter, shaking his head, “being but a trick, and I fear that she will pay for it, poor woman! Still, she gave us a start, though, as far as prisons go, I was better off in Granada than in that rattrap.” “Yes,” answered Margaret innocently, “you had a garden to walk in there, had you not? No, don’t be angry with me. Do you know whai Betty did?” And she told him of how she had lifted her veil and kissed Morelia without being discovered. “That isn’t so wonderful,” said Peter, “since if they are painted up women look much alike in a half-lit room ” “Or garden?” suggested Margaret. “What is wonderful,” went on Peter, scorning to taae note of this interruption, “is that she could consent to kiss the man at all. The double-dealing scoundrel! Has Inez told you how he treated her? The very thought of it makes me ill.”

“Well, Peter, lie didn’t ask you to kiss him, did he? and as for the wrongs of Inez, though doubtless you know more about them than I do, I think she has given him an orange for his pomegranate. But look, there is the Alcazar in front of us. Is it not a splendid castle? You know, it was built by the Moors.” “I don’t care who it was built by,” said Peter, “and it looks to me like any other castle, only larger. All I know about it is that I am to be tried there for knocking the ruffian on the head—and that perhaps this is the last we shall see of each other, as probably they will send me to the gal'eys, if they don’t do worse.” “Oh! say no such thing. I never thought of it, it is not possible!” answered Margaret, her dark eyes filling with tears. “Wait till your marquis appears, pleading the case against us, and you will see what is or is not possible,” replied Peter with conviction. “Still, we have eome through some storms, so let us hope for the best.” At that moment they reached the gate of the Alcazar, which they had approached from their prison through gardens of

orange trees, and soldiers came up and separated them. Next they were led across a court, where many people hurried to and fro, into a great marblecolumned room glittering with gold, which was called the Hall of Justice. At the far end of this place, seated on a throne set upon a richly carpeted dais, and surrounded by lords and counsellors, sat a magnificently-attired lady of middle age. She was blue-eyed and redhaired, with a fair-skinned, open countenance, but very reserved and quiet in her demeanour. “The Queen,” muttered the guard, saluting, as did Castell and Peter, while Margaret curtseyed. A case had just been tried, and the queen Isabella, after consultation with her assessors, was delivering judgment in a few words and a gentle voice. As she spoke her mild, blue eyes fell upon Margaret, and, held it would seem by her beauty, rested on her till they wandered off to the tall form of Peter and the dark, Jewish-looking Castell by him, at the sight of whom she frowned a little. That case was finished, and other suitors stood up in their turn, but the Queen, waving her hand and still looking

at Margaret, bent down and asked a question of one of the officers of the court, then gave an order, whereon the officer, rising, summoned “John Castell, Margaret Castell, and Peter Brome, all of England,” to appear at the Bar and answer to the charge of murder of one Luiz of Basa, a soldier of the Holy Hermandad. At once they were brought forward, and stood in a line in front of the dais, while the officer began to read the charge against them. “Stay, friend,” interposed the Queen, “these accused are subjects of our good brother, Henry of England, though one of them, I think” —and she glanced at Castell —“was not born in England, or, at any rate, of English blood, and may not understand our language. Ask them if they need an interpreter.” The question was put, and all of them answered that they could speak Spanish, though Peter added that he did so, but indifferently. •You are the knight, I think, who is charged with the commission of this crime,*’ said Isabella, looking at him. “Your Majesty, I am not a knight, only a plain esquire, Peter Brome, of

Dedham, in England. My father was a knight, Sir Peter Brome, but he fell at my side, lighting for Richard, on Bosworth Field, where 1 had this wound,’ - and he pointed to the sear upon his face, but was not knighted for my pains.” Isabella smiled a little, then asked: And how came you to Spain Senor Peter Brome?” “Your Majesty,” answered Peter, Margaret helping from time to time when he did not know the Spanish word “this lady at my side, the daughter of the merchant, John Castell, who stands by her, is my affianced ” 1 hen you have won the love of a very beautiful maiden, Senor,” interrupted the queen, “but proceed.*’ “She and her cousin, the Senora Dene, were kidnapped in London by one who I understand is the nephew of the King lerdinand, and an envoy to the English Court wh o passed there as the Senor Aguilar but who in Spain is the Marquis of Morelia.” “KidnappedJ. and by Morelia!” exclaimed the queen. les, your Majesty, cozened on board his ship and kidnapped. The Senor Castell and I followed them, and, boarding their vessel, tried to rescue them, but were shipwrecked at Motril. The marquis carried them away to Granada, whither we followed also, 1 being sorely hurt in the shipwreck. There, in the palace of the marquis, we have lain prisoners many weeks, but at length escaped purposing to come to Seville and seek the protection of your Majesties. On the road, while we were dressed as -Moors, in which garb we compassed our escape, we were attacked by men whom we thought were bandits, for we had been warned against such evil people. One of them rudely molested the Dona Margaiet, and 1 cut him down, and bv misfortune killed him, for which manslaughter 1 am here before you to-day. lour Majesty, I did not know that he was a soldier of the Holy Hermandad, and I pray you pardon my offence, which was done in ignorance, fear, and anger, m we are willing to pay compensation tor this unhappy death.” Now some one in the court exclaimed: “Well spoken, Englishman!” Then the queen said : If all this tale be true, I am not sure that we should blame you over much. Senor Brome; but how know we that it is true? For instance, you said that the noble marquis stole two ladies, a deed of which T can scarcely think him capable. Where, then, is the other? “I believe,” answered Peter, “that she re]"°'r the "* fe ° f the Ma,< l’ lis of MorIhe wife! Who bears witness that she is the wife? He has not advised us that he was about to marry, as is usual.” Then Bernaldez stood forward, stating his name and occupation, and that he was a correspondent of the English merchant, John Castell, and producing the certificate of marriage signed by Morelia. Betty, and the priest Henriques, handed it up to the queen, saying that he had icceived them in duplicate by a messenger from Granda, and had delivered the other to the Archbishop of Seville. The queen, having looked at the paper, passed it to her assessors, who examined it very carefully, one of them saying that the form was not usual, and that it might be forged. The queen thought a little while, then said: “That is so, and in one way only can we know the truth. Let our warrant issue summoning before us our cousin, the noble Marquis of Morelia, the Senora Dene, who is said to be his wife, and the priest Henriques of Motril, who is said to have married them. When they have arrived, ail of them, the king my husband and I will examine into the matter, and, until then, we will not suffer our minds to be prejudiced by hearing any more of this cause.” Now the governor of the prison stood forward, and asked what was to be done with the captives until the witnesses could be brought from Granada. The queen answered that they must remain in his charge, and be well treated, whereon Peter prayed that he might be given a better cell with fewer rats and more light. The queen smiled, and said that it should l>e so. but added that it would be proper that he should lie kept apart from the lady to whom he was affianced, who could dwell with her father. Then, noting the sadness on their faces, she added: “Yet I think they may meet daily in the garden of the prison.” Margaret curtseyed and thanked her, whereon she said very graciously:

“Come here, Senora, and sit by me a little,’’ and she pointed to a footstool at her side. "When 1 have done this business 1 desire a few words with you.” So Margaret was brought up upon the dais, and sat down at her Majesty’s left hand upon the broidered footstool, and very fair indeed she looked placed thus above the erowd, she whose beauty and whose bearing were so royal; but Castell and Peter were led away back to the prison, though, seeing so many gay lords about, the latter went unwillingly enough. A while later, when the cases were finished, the queen dismissed the court save for certain officers, who stood at a distance, and, turning to Margaret, said: "Now, fair maiden, tell me your story, as one woman to another, and do not fear that anything you say will be made use of at the trial of your lover, since against you, at any rate at present, no charge is laid. Say, first, are you really tlie affianced of that tall gentleman, and has he really your heart?” “All of it, your Majesty,” answered Margaret, “and we have suffered much for each other’s sake.” Then, in as few words as she could, she told their tale, while the queen listened earnestly. “A strange story indeed, and if it be all true, a shameful,” she said when Margaret had finished. “But how comes it that if Morelia desired to force you into marriage, he is now wed to your companion and cousin? What are you keeping back from me?” and she glanced at her shrewdly. "Your Majesty,” answered Margaret, "1 was ashamed to speak the rest, yet 1 will trust you and do so, praying your royal forgiveness if you hold that we, who were in desperate straits, have done what is wrong. My cousin, Betty Dene, has paid back Morelia in his own false gold, lie won her heart and promised to marry her, and at the risk of her own life she took my place at the altar, thereby securing our escape.” "A brave deed, if a doubtful,” said the queen, "though 1 question whether such a marriage will be upheld. But that is a matter for the Church to judge of, and I must speak of it no more. Certainly it is hard to be angry with any of you. What did you say that Alorella promised you when he asked you to marry him in London?” “Your Majesty, he promised that lie would lift me high, perhaps even” —she hesitated - "to that seat in which you sit.” Isabella frowned, then laughed, and said as she looked her up and down: "You would fit it well, better than 1 do in truth. But what else did he say?” "Your Majesty, he said that not every one loves the king, his uncle; that he had many friends who remembered that his father was poisoned by the father of tlie king, who was Morelia’s grandfather; also, that his mother was a princess of the Moors, and that he might throw in his lot witli theirs, or that there were other ways in which lie eould gain his end.” "So, so,” said the queen. “Well, though he is such a good son of tlie Church, and my lord is so fond of him, 1 never loved Morelia, and 1 thank you for your warning. But 1 must not speak to you of such high matters, though it seems that some have thought otherwise. Fair Margaret, have you ought to ask of me ?” "Yes, your Majesty—that you will deal gently with my true love when he comes before you for trial, remembering that he is not of head and strong of arm, and tiiat such knights as he—for knightly in his blood —-cannot brok to see their lady mishandled by rough men, and the wrappings that shield them torn tiom oil their bosoms. Also, 1 pray that 1 may be protected from Alorella, that he may not be allowed to touch or even speak to me, who, for all his rank and splendour, hate him as though he were some poisoned snake.” I have said that 1 must not prejudge your ease, you beautiful English Alargaret,” the queen answered with a smile, "yet 1 think that neither of those things you ask will cause justice to slip the bandage that is about her eyes. Go, and be at peace. If you have spoken truth to me, as I am sure yon have, and Isabella of Spain can prevent it, the Senor Brome’s punishment shall not be heavy, nor shall the shadow of the Alarquis of Morelia, the base-born son of a prince ami of some royal infidel”—these words she spoke with much bitterness—“so much as fall upon you, though I warn you that my lord the king loves the man, us is but natural, and will not condemn

him lightly. Tell me one thing. This lover of yours is a brave man, is he not T” “Very brave,” answered Margaret, smiling. “And he can ride a horse and hold a lance, can he not, at any rate in your quarrel ?” “Aye, your Majesty, and wield a sword, too, as well as most knights, though he lias been but lately sick. Some learned that on Bosworth Field.” “Good. Now farewell,” and she gave Margaret her hand to kiss. Then, calling two of her officers, she bade them conduct her back to the prison, and say that she should have liberty to send messages or to write to her, the queen, if she should so desire. On the night of that same day Morelia galloped into Seville. Indeed, he should have been there long before, but, misled by the story of the Moors who had escorted Peter, Margaret and her father out of Granada, and seen them take the Malaga road, he travelled thither first, only to find no trace of them in that city. Then he returned and tracked them to Seville, where he was soon made acquainted with all that had happened. Amongst other things, he discovered that ten hours before swift messengers had been despatched to Granada, commanding his attendance and that of Betty, with whom he had gone through the form of marriage. On the following morning he asked an audience with the queen, but it was refused to him, and the king, his uncle, was away. Next he tried to win admission into the prison and see Margaret, only to find that neither his high rank and authority nor any bribe would suffice to unlock its doors. The queen had commanded otherwise, he was informed, and knew therefrom that in this matter he must reckon with Isabella as an enemy. Then he bethought him of revenge, and began a search for Inez and the priest Henriques, of Motril, only to find that the former had vanished, none knew whither, and the holy father was safe within the walls of the Inquisition, whence he was careful not to emerge, and where no layman, however highly placed, could enter to lay a hand upon one of its officers. So, full of rage and disappointment, he took counsel of lawyers and friends, and prepared to defend the suit which he saw would be brought against him. hoping that chance might yet deliver Margaret into his hands. One good card he held, which now he determined to play. Castell, as he knew, was a .Tew, who for years had posed as a Christian, and for such as he there was no mercy in Seville. Perhaps for her fathers’ sake he might yet be able to work upon Margaret, whom now he desired to win more fiercely than ever before. At least it was certain that he would try this, or any other means, however base, rather than see her married to his rival, Peter Brome. Also, there was the chance that this Peter might be condemned to imprisonment, or even to death, for the killing of a soldier of the TTeimandad. So Morelia made him ready for the great struggle as best he could, and, since he could not stop her coming, awaited the arrival of Betty in Seville. (To be continued.)