Now Montalvo knew that his difficulties were over for that evening at any rate, since he had crossed the threshold and was a guest.
Half unconsciously Lysbeth guided him to the balconied sit-kamer on the first floor, which in our day would answer to the drawing-room. Here several other of her friends were gathered, for it had been arranged that the ice-festival should end with a supper as rich as the house could give. To these, too, she must introduce her cavalier, who bowed courteously to each in turn. Then she escaped, but, as she passed him, distinctly, she could swear, did she see his lips shape themselves to the hateful word—“pays.”
When she reached her chamber, so great was Lysbeth’s wrath and indignation that almost she choked with it, till again reason came to her aid, and with reason a desire to carry the thing off as well as might be. So she told her maid Greta to robe her in her best garment, and to hang about her neck the famous collar of pearls which her father had brought from the East, that was the talk and envy of half the women in Leyden. On her head, too, she placed the cap of lovely lace which had been a wedding gift to her mother by her grandmother, the old dame who wove it. Then she added such golden ornaments as it was customary for women of her class to wear, and descended to the gathering room.
Meanwhile Montalvo had not been idle. Taking Dirk aside, and pleading his travel-worn condition, he had prayed him to lead him to some room where he might order his dress and person. Dirk complied, though with an ill grace, but so pleasant did Montalvo make himself during those few minutes, that before he ushered him back to the company in some way Dirk found himself convinced that this particular Spaniard was not, as the saying went, “as black as his mustachios.” He felt almost sure too, although he had not yet found time to tell him the details of it, that there was some excellent reason to account for his having carried off the adorable Lysbeth during an entire afternoon and evening.
It is true that there still remained the strange circumstance of the attempted foul of his cousin Van de Werff’s sledge in the great race, but, after all, why should there not be some explanation of this also? It had happened, if it did happen, at quite a distance from the winning post, when there were few people to see what passed. Indeed, now that he came to think of it, the only real evidence on the matter was that of his cousin, the little girl passenger, since Van de Werff himself had brought no actual accusation against his opponent.
Shortly after they returned to the company it was announced that supper had been served, whereon ensued a pause. It was broken by Montalvo, who, stepping forward, offered his hand to Lysbeth, saying in a voice that all could hear:
“Lady, my companion of the race, permit the humblest representative of the greatest monarch in the world to have an honour which doubtless that monarch would be glad to claim.”
That settled the matter, for as the acting commandant of the Spanish garrison of Leyden had chosen to refer to his official position, it was impossible to question his right of precedence over a number of folk, who, although prominent in their way, were but unennobled Netherlander burghers.
Lysbeth, indeed, did find courage to point to a rather flurried and spasmodic lady with grey hair who was fanning herself as though the season were July, and wondering whether the cook would come up to the grand Spaniard’s expectations, and to murmur “My aunt.” But she got no further, for the Count instantly added in a low voice—
“Doubtless comes next in the direct line, but unless my education has been neglected, the heiress of the house who is of age goes before the collateral—however aged.”