“By the eleven thousand virgins!” he said, “your daughter is more beautiful than all of them put together. She should be crowned a queen, and bewitch the world.”
“Nay, nay, Señor,” answered Castell hurriedly; “let her remain humble and honest, and bewitch her husband.”
“So I should say if I were the husband,” he muttered, then stepped forward, bowing, to meet her.
Now the light of the silver lamp she held on high flowed over the two of them, d’Aguilar and Margaret, and certainly they seemed a well-matched pair. Both were tall and cast by Nature in a rich and splendid mould; both had that high air of breeding which comes with ancient blood—for what bloods are more ancient than those of the Jew and the Eastern?—both were slow and stately of movement, low-voiced, and dignified of speech. Castell noted it and was afraid, he knew not of what.
Peter, entering the room by another door, clad only in his grey clothes, for he would not put on gay garments for the Spaniard, noted it also, and with the quick instinct of love knew this magnificent foreigner for a rival and an enemy. But he was not afraid, only jealous and angry. Indeed, nothing would have pleased him better then than that the Spaniard should have struck him in the face, so that within five minutes it might be shown which of them was the better man. It must come to this, he felt, and very glad would he have been if it could come at the beginning and not at the end, so that one or the other of them might be saved much trouble. Then he remembered that he had promised to say or show nothing of how things stood between him and Margaret, and, coming forward, he greeted d’Aguilar quietly but coldly, telling him that his horses had been stabled, and his retinue accommodated.
The Spaniard thanked him very heartily, and they passed in to supper. It was a strange meal for all four of them, yet outwardly pleasant enough. Forgetting his cares, Castell drank gaily, and began to talk of the many changes which he had seen in his life, and of the rise and fall of kings. d’Aguilar talked also, of the Spanish wars and policy, for in the first he had seen much service, and of the other he knew every turn. It was easy to see that he was one of those who mixed with courts, and had the ear of ministers and majesty. Margaret also, being keen-witted and anxious to learn of the great world that lay beyond Holborn and London town, asked questions, seeking to know, amongst other things, what were the true characters of Ferdinand, King of Aragon, and Isabella his wife, the famous queen.
“I will tell you in few words, Señora. Ferdinand is the most ambitious man in Europe, false also if it serves his purpose. He lives for self and gain—that is, money and power. These are his gods, for he has no true religion. He is not clever but, being very cunning, he will succeed and leave a famous name behind him.”
“An ugly picture,” said Margaret. “And what of his queen?”
“She,” answered d’Aguilar, “is a great woman, who knows how to use the temper of her time and so attain her ends. To the world she shows a tender heart, but beneath it lies hid an iron resolution.”
“What are those ends?” asked Margaret again.