“My name is Inez. You wander still, Señor”
“Inez what?” he asked.
“Inez only,” she answered, “Inez, a woman of Granada, the rest is lost. Inez, the nurse of sick men, Señor.”
“Where then is Margaret—the English Margaret?”
A veil of secrecy seemed to fall over the woman’s face, and her voice changed as she answered, no longer ringing true, or so it struck his senses made quick and subtle by the fires of fever:
“I know no English Margaret. Do you then love her—this English Margaret?”
“Aye,” he answered, “she was stolen from me; I have followed her from far, and suffered much. Is she dead or living?”
“I have told you, Señor, I know nothing, although”—and again the voice became natural—“it is true that I thought you loved somebody from your talk in your illness.”
Peter pondered a while, then he began to remember, and asked again:
“Where is Castell?”