“You're Catholic, yet you say that!” I exclaimed, as we stood looking at the gorgeous shields of Los Reyes Católicos. Dick was near, listening with concealed eagerness for the girl's answer,—and no wonder, since he was Protestant, and not the man to be a turncoat, even for his love.
“Oh yes, I'm Catholic,” said she. “But,”—half whispering,—“Spaniards, even the most ardent Catholics, didn't really love the Inquisition. It was thrust on them; and—I suppose in those brutal old days it was a horrible excitement to see the burnings. It's natural to us Latins to have excitement; and after years of such dreadful ones as we had in those times, do you wonder the people clamour for bull-fights?”
“Then you don't think we Protestants deserve burning?” asked Dick, staring at the crucifix.
“How can you ask such a question?”
“But you—couldn't make a real friend of one, I suppose, or—er—let yourself care about one much?”
“I should try and convert him—or her.”
“Supposing you couldn't?”
“Then, I'd have to like him—or her—in spite of all. And he—or she—would have to leave my religion alone. But I'm tired of solemn things; and brother Cristóbal's dying to buy metal-work.”
I don't think that Dick knew whether he had been encouraged or not. And he must have remembered that the Conde de Roldan is the best and most eligible of Catholics. Poor Dick! Perhaps he was beginning to realize how much easier it is to advise another man to be sensible than to be sensible yourself.
Pilar had been right in her surmises as to the workings of Carmona's mind. When we came to the showroom of the Fabrica de Espadas, where the dusk was shot with a thousand gleams and glitters of strange weapons, there were those we had [pg 154]sought in vain till now. The Duchess, yellow with fatigue, was resting her stout person on a bench in the long, low room, Lady Vale-Avon beside her, looking tired and bored. But Carmona was at the glass-covered counter, begging Monica's advice in the selection of his purchases.