“And what is that? Tell me!”
“Of that I was also ignorant; but take me to the palace in Madrid, let me see the reigning king, and I will tell you the sentence which the Eternal One has written upon his brow.”
“And if you mistake?” said Philip of Anjou, drawing nearer to Tito.
“You may hang me, or hold me prisoner at your will.”
“You are a wizard then!” exclaimed Philip, attempting in a measure to justify the faith he placed in Tito’s words.
“Sire,” he answered, “there are no wizards nowadays. The last one was Louis XIV., and the last bewitched was Charles II. The crown of Spain that we sent to you in Paris, twenty-five years ago, wrapped in the will of an idiot, redeemed us from the captivity of the Devil, in which we had lived since the abdication of Charles V. You know that better than any one.”
“Physician to the Court! Duke! And thirty thousand dollars,” murmured the king.
“For a crown worth more than you imagine,” added Tito.
“You have my royal word,” replied Philip, solemnly, overpowered by that voice, that face, that mysterious bearing.