“I wonder will the King,” said I.
“The Catholic King is ever an obedient child of Mother Church,” the oily Nuncio reminded me, to reprove my doubt.
But I knew better—that the King's own policy was the measure of his obedience. This the Nuncio should learn for himself; for if I knew anything of Philip's mind, I knew precisely how he would welcome this proposal.
“Will you see the King now?” I suggested maliciously, anxious to witness the humbling of his priestly arrogance.
“Not yet. It is upon that I came to see you. I am instructed first to consult with one Escoda as to the manner in which this matter shall be presented to His Majesty. Who is Escoda?”
“I never heard of him,” said I. “Perhaps he comes from Rome.”
“No, no. Strange!” he muttered, frowning, and plucked a parchment from his sleeve. “It is here.” He peered slowly at the writing, and slowly spelled out the name: “Juan de Escoda.”
In a flash it came to me.
“Escovedo you mean,” I cried,
“Yes, yes—Escovedo, to be sure,” he agreed, having consulted the writing once more. “Where is he?”