"Well, milor Everingham," said the Spaniard after a while, "what say you to our adventure?"
"I say first and foremost, my lord," replied Everingham with studied gallantry, "that my prophecy proved correct—the mysterious necromancer was no proof against Spanish wiles; she unveiled at a smile from Don Miguel, Marquis de Suarez, the envoy of His Most Catholic Majesty."
"Nay," rejoined Don Miguel, affecting not to notice the slight tone of sarcasm in his friend's pleasant voice, "I scarce caught a glimpse of the wench's face. The tent was so dark and her movements so swift."
There was a moment's silence. Lord Everingham seemed lost in meditation.
"You are thoughtful, milor," remarked Don Miguel. "Have the genii of the moon conquered your own usually lively spirits?"
"Nay, I was thinking of the curious resemblance," mused Everingham.
"A resemblance?—to whom?"
"As you say, the tent was dark and the wench's movements swift, yet I could see that, though coarsely clad and ill-kempt, that witch, whom they call Mirrab, is the very physical counterpart of the new Court beauty, the Lady Ursula Glynde."
"The fiancée of the Duke of Wessex!" exclaimed the Spaniard. "Impossible!"
"Nay, my lord," rejoined Everingham pointedly, "she scarce can be called His Grace's fiancée as yet. They were children in their cradles when her father plighted their troth."