Thus encouraged Doña Hermoine who, sweetheart like, loves to prattle of her adored, sits down and makes confession to her father; during which he asks her one or two questions she thinks are foolish, but he thinks pertinent. “You say you first met him on the day of the spring flood of 1572?”
“Yes, papa; that was the night I told you of, when he protected me from the Gueux.”
“A—ah—ah This gentleman you love has dark hair and eyes?”
“No, bright blue eyes, and his hair is for a Spaniard very blonde—Did I not tell you so, Goosey!”
“Oh, yes; I meant bright eyes, I had forgotten. Light chestnut hair, you say, and a free and easy manner. He walks like a sailor.”
“Like a cavalryman!”
“Ah, yes; they both have rolling gaits. The day you met him was the one I came so hurriedly in from Brussels?”
“Yes, you came very hastily. It was the day Floris the Painter had that drinking bout, and drank one of his opponents even unto death.”
“Yes, I recollect,” says His Highness slowly. “The day Guerra would have made revelation to me, but died. This gentleman you say you love,” my lord of Alva’s manner has a kind of forced lightness in it, “speaks the patois of Hispaniola?”
“Yes, it is poor Spanish, but sounds very sweet to me.”