"De Vargas!" says Alva abruptly after a while, "dost mind that to-morrow is not only Sunday, but the feast of the Blessed Redeemer and a holy day of obligation?"
"Aye, Monseigneur," replied de Vargas unctuously, "I am minded that if we do not go to Mass to-morrow, those of us who die unabsolved of the sin will go to hell."
"The men are grumbling already," breaks in don Sancho de Avila, captain of the bodyguard. "They say they will not fight to-morrow if they cannot go to Mass."
"Those Walloons..."
"Not only the Walloons, Monseigneur," rejoins de Avila, "the Spaniards are better Catholics than all these Netherlanders. They fear to die with a mortal sin upon their soul."
Nothing more is said just then; the grey day is already yielding to dusk; the fire of artillery and musketry is less incessant, the clash of pike and halberd can be heard more distinctly, and also the cries of the women and the groans of the wounded and the dying.
A few moments later a tall, lean man in the borrowed dress of a Spanish halberdier is ushered into the presence of the council. Water, food and clothes have effected a transformation which Alva surveys critically, and not without approval. The man--lean of visage and clean of limb--looks intelligent and capable; the Duke orders him to advance.
"'Tis good for thee," he says dryly, "that thy death is more unprofitable to me than thy life. I want a messenger ... art afraid to go to the miserable wretch who dares to lead a rebel horde against our Sovereign King?"
"I am afraid of nothing, Magnificence," replies the man quietly, "save your Highness's wrath."
"Dost know where to find the rebel?"