“She had been stolen by him,” answered Peter.
“Alas! it may be so; but here in Spain, and especially here in Granada, that will scarcely screen the name of one who has been known to travel with the Marquis of Morella.”
“So much the worse for the Marquis of Morella when I meet him again,” answered Peter sternly. “What is your story, Nurse Inez?”
She looked with interest at his grim, thin face, but, as it seemed to him, with no displeasure.
“A sad one. As I have told you, a sad one. It seems that the other day this señora was found dead at the foot of the tallest tower of the marquis’s palace, though whether she fell from it, or was thrown from it, none know.”
Peter gasped, and was silent for a while; then asked:
“Did you see her dead?”
“No, Señor; others saw her.”
“And told you to tell me? Nurse Inez, I do not believe your tale. If the Dona Margaret, my betrothed, were dead I should know it; but my heart tells me that she is alive.”
“You have great faith, Señor,” said the woman, with a note of admiration in her voice which she could not suppress, but, as he observed, without contradicting him.