“My daughter is never likely to see it,” broke in Castell; “I do not purpose that she should visit Spain.”
“Ah! you do not purpose; but who knows? God and His saints alone,” and again he crossed himself, then fell to describing the beauties of Granada.
He was a fine and ready talker, and his voice was very pleasant, so Margaret listened attentively enough, watching his face, and forgetting to eat, while her father and Peter watched them both. At length the meal came to an end, and when the serving-men had cleared away the dishes, and they were alone, Castell said:
“Now, kinsman Peter, tell me your story.”
So Peter told him, in few words, yet omitting nothing.
“I find no blame in you,” said the merchant when he had done, “nor do I see how you could have acted otherwise than you did. It is Margaret whom I blame, for I only gave her leave to walk with you and Betty by the river, and bade her beware of crowds.”
“Yes, father, the fault is mine, and for it I pray your pardon,” said Margaret, so meekly that her father could not find the heart to scold her as he had meant to do.
“You should ask Peter’s pardon,” he muttered, “seeing that he is like to be laid by the heels in a dungeon over this business, yes, and put upon his trial for causing the man’s death. Remember, he was in the service of de Ayala, with whom our liege wishes to stand well, and de Ayala, it seems, is very angry.”
Now Margaret grew frightened, for the thought that harm might come to Peter cut her heart. The colour left her cheek, and once again her eyes swam with tears.
“Oh! say not so,” she exclaimed. “Peter, will you not fly at once?”