A moment after, Guy, putting his hand upon the breast of the Spaniard, mutters: “The spy is dead.” And a great, deep-drawn breath of relief comes from the Fleming—this one of his many dangers has died with Vasco de Guerra.
The color has returned to his face, and he laughs: “It was your lucky coming and the pigeon pie that saved me—for a little while—my friend, my Guido!”
The two go out together, and on the street Oliver again looks serious and mutters: “Alva! Here before his time. He was not to arrive till evening. What has brought him so suddenly from Brussels?”
For a cavalcade is prancing up the street; thirty horsemen armored in steel with long lances bearing the pennon of Vargas. Before these, upon a strong Andalusian charger, rides a man of spare but very tall stature, in complete, glistening, gold-embossed Milan armor. Over the gorget about his neck is the ribbon of the Golden Fleece upon which hangs the Lamb of God, the insignia of that Order. This is covered by a long sable, silvered beard that falls in two peculiar pointed locks upon his breast, his dark hair cut short, is likewise grizzled; so is his mustache, which drapes peculiar lips, the upper thin, firm and determined; the lower sensual—but determined also; his forehead high, [[84]]pale, blue-veined and strangely intellectual, that of the military mathematician; his nose aquiline and of rare beauty, keen cut, precise, immovable, his cheeks sallow and pallid—altogether a face cold as death, lighted by two blazing, sparkling, unflinching, serpent’s eyes, and yet at times in certain features so like the woman that made Guy’s heart beat with love the night before that he knows it is her father, and murmurs: “Alva!”
The Duke is talking quietly to Alfonso de Ulloa and Pedro Paciotto, his great military engineer, who ride immediately behind him. All are covered with the dust of hasty travel.
As they pass the Painted Inn the Viceroy’s piercing eyes look haughtily upon the crowd that stand upon the steps and throng the pentice of the hostelry with doffed hats to do him reverence. Suddenly reining up, he cries: “Oliver! Antonius Oliver!” and the painter, stepping forth, bows before the Duke of Alva’s charger.
“It is fate I have got word with you so soon. Find for me at once one Vasco de Guerra, ex-Captain in Ladroño’s Musketeers. Tell him I will hear his tale within the hour, and bring him with you to the Citadel at once,” commands the captain-general.
“Under favor, your—your Highness,” returns Oliver, “the—the man you ask for—”
“Yes, speak quickly. What are you stammering about?” says the Viceroy, for the sudden demand for the man he has murdered has staggered the painter, tactician though he is—for a moment.
“I was about to say, your Highness, that this Vasco de Guerra, who is one of the Six Drunkards of Brussels, now lies stupefied from his potations at the drinking bout.”