“Perhaps, Count de Montalvo,” she replied, “you will do me the favour to set out your business in as few words as possible.”
“Most certainly; that is my desire. Let me free your mind of apprehension. The past has mingled memories for both of us, some of them bitter, some, let me hope, sweet,” and he laid his hand upon his heart and sighed. “But it is a dead past, so, dear lady, let us agree to bury it in a fitting silence.”
Lysbeth made no answer, only her mouth grew a trifle more stern.
“Now, one word more, and I will come to the point. Let me congratulate you upon the gallant deeds of a gallant son. Of course his courage and dexterity, with that of the red giant, Martin, have told against myself, have, in short, lost me a trick in the game. But I am an old soldier, and I can assure you that the details of their fight yesterday at the factory, and of their marvellous escape from—from—well, painful surroundings this morning, have stirred my blood and made my heart beat fast.”
“I have heard the tale; do not trouble to repeat it,” said Lysbeth. “It is only what I expected of them, but I thank God that it has pleased Him to let them live on so that in due course they may fearfully avenge a beloved father and master.”
Montalvo coughed and turned his head with the idea of avoiding that ghastly nightmare of a pitiful little man falling down a fathomless gulf which had sprung up suddenly in his mind again.
“Well,” he went on, “a truce to compliments. They escaped, and I am glad of it, whatever murders they may contemplate in the future. Yes, notwithstanding their great crimes and manslayings in the past I am glad that they escaped, although it was my duty to keep them while I could—and if I should catch them it will be my duty—but I needn’t talk of that to you. Of course, however, you know, there is one gentleman who was not quite so fortunate.”
“My husband?”
“Yes, your worthy husband, who, happily for my reputation as captain of one of His Majesty’s prisons, occupies an upstairs room.”
“What of him?” asked Lysbeth.