“A meal?” quoth the king, utterly amazed. “Could he eat?”
“Surely,” is the answer, “and glad he seemed to get it.”
“Did he not appear to suffer? Was he—well—did nothing ail him?”
“Nothing, my liege. I never saw a prisoner more débonnaire, but he seems grown strangely short to my eyes; he certainly has dwindled.”
“You are a fool!” cries the irritated king; “I must look into this matter myself. Bring him to my presence.”
“By the rood, but he does seem strangely altered,” mutters the king, as the prisoner stands before him. “Surely”—and a suspicion shoots through his mind, to be dismissed at once as ridiculous, as they approach each other.
“Well, Sir Conde, are the prisons of Leon better guarded than those of Narbonne?” he asks, with a sneer.
“Much better, Sir King, one can escape more easily. For a sovereign so versed in plots and conspiracies—murder even”—(at this word the king gives a great start)—“you are marvellously at ease.”
King Sancho became so bewildered, his head was going round. Was he bewitched? Was this the Conde or not? And if not, who?
Then Doña Ava, speaking in her own natural voice, broke out into peals of laughter.