“I have faith,” he answered. “Nothing else is left; but so far it has been a good crutch.”
Peter made no further allusion to the subject, only presently he asked:
“Tell me, where am I?”
“In a prison, Señor.”
“Oh! a prison, with a beautiful woman for jailer, and other beautiful women”—and he pointed to a fair creature who had brought something into the room—“as servants. A very fine prison also,” and he looked about him at the marbles and arches and lovely carving.
“There are men without the gate, not women,” she replied, smiling.
“I daresay; captives can be tied with ropes of silk, can they not? Well, whose is this prison?”
She shook her head.
“I do not know, Señor. The Moorish king’s perhaps—you yourself have said that I am only the jailer.”
“Then who pays you?”