I was fain to confess myself puzzled when my eye fell on these accompaniments.
“I am thinking, my son,” said Sir Richard, “although, to be sure, it is no more than a whim or a notion of mine, that you might be called to wait six days for an answer to your summons, for by its situation I should judge it to be a gate that is opened once a week; of a Wednesday, for the kitchen-maids to sally out at and wash their linen down below in the Tagus. And I would respectfully urge, although this again is no more than a whim or a notion, that the grand entrance is along this path half a furlong to the left; at least, if it be not so, it hath changed its place since I was here last June.”
It put me out of humour to reflect that I had not used my observation more shrewdly, for as soon as I received this information, which the Englishman conveyed to me in a mocking manner, I was able to perceive that behind the gate the patio was empty, instead of thronging soldiers and activity. Therefore we turned our horses into the path he had proposed, and stayed them presently before a gate far handsomer. And no sooner had I set my sword to this than it fell back before my hand and a very grave personage was standing with his hat off before my bridle-rein and inquiring my good pleasure.
That he was a person of consideration was clear enough. His mien was extraordinarily dignified, and to all that I said he listened politely; but when I asked for an audience of the duke he referred me to one of a surpassing stoutness, who came waddling up to us as we discoursed together. This gentleman, although extremely heavy and slow of speech, proved just as civil, and gave me to understand that he was no less a person than Don Luiz, the duke’s gentleman-usher. But when I spoke of an audience he bowed very low, and yet looked at me in a kind of sorrow, for he said,—
“Sir, you crave the impossible. The levee was yesterday, and a week must pass before you can be admitted to the next.”
“Sir,” I said, “I have travelled from the Asturias upon no other errand.”
Don Luiz shook his head, and deplored the fact that this could not help the matter. And all this time the Englishman was laughing in such a manner that I feared he must pitch straight off his horse.
“I would have you to believe, Don Luiz,” said I, with an urgency that was increased by the behaviour of the Englishman, “that I am one Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas, a name antecedent, if you please, to the Moorish invasion, and as favourably looked on as any in the northern provinces.”
Still, in spite of the earnestness with which I mentioned this, the portly and consequential Don Luiz stood as mute as a stone, not so much as twitching his lips or abating his glance in any particular. Indeed it would seem, from the manner in which he enfolded me in his sleepy looks, that the style of my clothes and their condition were a more imminent matter than my business and descent.
“Next week, sir,” was all he deigned to reply, and pointed to the gate for his final answer. Feeling myself to be powerless against this refusal, which was yet very arbitrary, resentment began to stir in me.