“I think that you shall be securely wed by a priest of your own Church, and that letters, signed by that priest and announcing the marriage, shall be delivered to the Archbishop of Seville, and to their Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. Also, of course, you must arrange that the Señor Brome and your father, the Señor Castell, and your cousin Betty here shall be escorted safe out of Granada before your marriage, and that you shall see them pass through the gate beneath your turret window, swearing that thereafter, at nightfall of the same day, you will suffer the priest to do his office and make you Morella’s wife. By that time they should be well upon their road, and, after the rite is celebrated, I will receive the signed papers from the priest and follow them, leaving the false bride to play her part as best she can.”
Again Margaret hesitated; the thing seemed too complicated and full of danger. But while she thought, a knock came on the door.
“That is to tell me that Morella awaits your answer in the court,” said Inez. “Now, which is it to be? Remember that there is no other chance of escape for you, or the others, from this guarded town—at least I can see none.”
“I accept,” said Margaret hurriedly, “and God help us all, for we shall need Him.”
“And you, Señora Betty?”
“Oh! I made up my mind long ago,” answered Betty coolly. “We can only fail, when we shall be no worse off than before.”
“Good. Then play your parts well, both of you. After all, they should not be so difficult, for the priest is safe, and the marquis will never scent such a trick as this. Fix the marriage for this day week, as I have much to think of and make ready,” and she went.
Half an hour later Margaret sat under the cool arcade of the marble court, and with her, Morella, while upon the further side of its splashing fountain and out of earshot, Betty and Inez walked to and fro in the shadow.
“You sent for me, Marquis,” said Margaret presently, “and, being your prisoner, I have come because I must. What is your pleasure with me?”
“Dona Margaret,” he answered gravely, “can you not guess? Well, I will tell you, lest you should guess wrong. First, it is to ask your forgiveness as I have done before, for the many crimes to which my love, my true love, for you has driven me. This time yesterday I knew well that I could expect none. To-day I dare to hope that it may be otherwise.”