“I am a Spaniard, for whom to-morrow never comes.”
“But it will this time. To-morrow I shall expect you.”
He looked up at her sitting her great black horse beside which he had been pacing.
“Better not, madame! Better not!” he had said.
And then he saw the eyes that had been tender grow charged with scorn; then came her angry taunt:
“You a Spaniard of Spain! I do not believe it!”
Oh, there was no doubt that he had angered her. Women of her temperament are quick to anger as to every emotion. But he had not wished to anger her. God knows it was never the way of Antonio Perez to anger lovely women—at least not in this fashion. And it was an ill return for her gentleness and attention to himself. Considering this as he sat there now, he resolved that he must make amends—the only amends it was possible to make.
An hour later, in one of the regal rooms of the castle, where he enjoyed the hospitality of King Henri IV of France and Navarre, he announced to that most faithful equerry, Gil de Mesa, his intention of riding to Chantenac to-morrow.
“Is it prudent?” quoth Mesa, frowning.
“Most imprudent,” answered Don Antonio. “That is why I go.”