Two chains, each equipped with leg manacles, were fastened to the staples, and the bolts were hammered again until the chains were immovably riveted in the center. The prisoners were locked into the leg-piece, and their remaining fetters were removed. These operations occupied some time in accomplishments. They had been on board fully half an hour before the halberdiers left them, and they did not know that a tall man, heavily cloaked, who stood behind the screen of soldiers, was furtively watching them throughout.
A sentry, with drawn sword, was stationed at the door when the others departed. The shrouded stranger imperiously motioned him aside and entered. He threw open his cloak. A tiny lantern swinging from the ceiling lit up his sallow, thin face. The piercing black eyes, hawk-like nose, and lips that met in a determined line, would have revealed his identity had not his garments placed the matter beyond doubt. It was the Jesuit whom they had encountered in the doorway of Gondomar’s house.
He regarded them in silence for a moment. Then he smiled, and the menace of his humor was more terrible than many a man’s rage.
“You are not so bold, now that a howling crowd is not at your backs,” he said, speaking English so correctly that it was clear he had dwelt many years in the country.
“It may well be that your holiness is bolder seeing we are chained to the floor,” said Roger.
“Peace, fellow. I do not bandy words with your like. When you reach Spain you shall have questions enough to answer. You,” he continued, fixing his sinister gaze on Walter, “you said your name was Mowbray, if I heard aright?”
“Yes. What quarrel have I or any of my kin with Gondomar that my comrade and I should be entrapped in this fashion?”
“Your name is familiar in my ears. Are you of the same house as one Robert Mowbray, who fell on board the San José on the day when St. Michael and his heavenly cohorts turned their faces from Spain?”
“If you speak of the Armada,” answered Walter coldly, “I am the son of Sir Robert Mowbray, who was foully murdered on board that vessel by one of your order. Nevertheless,” he added, reflecting that such a reply was not politic, “that is no reason why I should be subjected to outrage or that you should lend your countenance to it. My friend and I, who have done no wrong, nor harmed none, save in defense of two ladies beset by roisterers, have been arrested on the King’s warrant and apparently handed over to the Spanish authorities because, forsooth, we pursued certain rascals into the Ambassador’s garden.”
He paused, not that his grievance was exhausted but rather that the extraordinary expression of mingled joy and hatred which convulsed the Jesuit’s face told him his protests were unheeded.