De Vilela went white to the lips; but he spoke with that habitual courtesy of his, as, pulling out his sword and offering it to Fitzmaurice by the handle, he said—
“I cannot do this thing, for this man is as my brother! I am your prisoner also, señor. Do with me as you will!” Then this loyal gentleman added, turning to the Spanish soldiers, “Long live the King!” and they, too, said, “Long live the King!”
“Take mine!” cried I, holding out my sword to him—so moved out of myself was I.
“Nay; that I cannot do either,” said he.
“Are you mad?” asked Fitzmaurice of de Vilela. “You must be mad. Has that woman bewitched you too?” And he wrung his hands.
“Señor,” said I to de Vilela, “words have passed between Sir James Fitzmaurice and myself about my mistress that can only be wiped out in one way,” and I glanced at my sword.
De Vilela sighed.
“Señor Fitzmaurice will, I am sure, not refuse?” asked the Spaniard, courteous as ever.
“No, I will not refuse,” said Fitzmaurice. “All men know me; but it cannot be now.”