“Madam, I grieve in aught to displease your Highness,” is the reply; “but I act under strict command, as the king’s officer. The presence of armed troops near Toledo gives some alarm——”
“Armed troops!” interrupts Claire, arresting Blanche’s progress with her hand; “and who commands them?”
The governor hesitated. Claire’s eyes, a pair of brilliant orbs with glancing Gallic fire, were turned full upon him.
“Oh, tell me, is it the Grand Master of Santiago?” cries Blanche, thinking that Don Fadique might be near. “You are not bidden to imprison our souls.”
“Madam,” answers the young governor, bowing to the ground, “I dare not refuse the command of the Queen of Castile. The armed bands I speak of are the skirmishers of Don Enrique de Trastamare, who is advancing from the north on the city of Toledo. It is said that some French mercenaries are with him.”
“Oh! thank the blessed Virgin for that,” ejaculates poor Blanche, clasping her hands and uttering a silent prayer. “They have thought of me at last. Oh, the dear French; it seems to me I could embrace the roughest of the soldiers! Oh, that I were with them, and had never left that pleasant land! Are they far off? Can I see them pass? Is there no tower or battlement from which I could wave a greeting to them? Oh, say——?”
“Madam,” answers the governor, gravely—Claire finds him extremely sympathetic, with his dark moustache and pointed beard, small aristocratic head, and dark black eyes, capable of saying so many things—“I have already overstepped my duty. Your Grace must be merciful, and press me no further. Believe me, madam, did it depend on me, not only this wish of yours, but all others, would be met even before expressed. I, too, come of French blood. My mother was from Bayonne.”
“Your name?” asks Blanche. “The king is happy in possessing so loyal an officer.”
“Alvarez de Varga,” is the reply. “As a boy, I was reared at Seville, as one of the pages of the queen.”
“What queen?” asks Claire, hastily. “Not——”