"Yes," said the girl, "but first you lived your life—you did not yield it up on the threshold—unlived."
Silently Philip crossed himself, raising his thick swollen fingers from the rosary which hung about his neck as low as his waist.
"Then why have you come," he said, again resuming the steady fingering of his beads, "when you have not thought it fitting to obey, save upon condition? One does not play the merchant with one's father."
"I have been too young—yes," she broke out, her voice hurrying in fear of interruption—"too like my mother—ah, even you cannot reproach me with that!—to bury myself under a veil, with eternal walls shutting me in on every side. I have served you well. I have served the Society—I have done your will, my father—save only in this."
"And now," said the King drily, "you have returned to a better mind?"
"I have," said Valentine, "on conditions!"
"Again I warn you I do not bargain," said the King, "my will is my will. Refuse or submit. I make no terms."
The girl flashed into fire at the word.
"Ah, but you must," she cried. "I am no daughter of Flanders—no Caterina de Lainez to be shut up with the Ursulines of Brussels against my will. I am an Osorio of the Osorios. The brother of my mother will protect me. And behind him all Astorga and Leon would rise to march upon Madrid if any harm befell me. I bargain because it is my right—because I can stand between your children and their princely thrones—because I can prove your marriage no marriage—because, without my consent and that of my brothers Pedro and Bernardino, you had never either been King of England nor left children to sit in the seat of Charles your father. But neither they nor I have asked for aught save life from your hands. We have effaced ourselves for the kingdom's good and yours. A king of Spain may not marry a subject, but you married my mother—your friend's sister. Now will you bargain or no?"
"I will listen," said Philip grimly; "place my foot-rest a little nearer me, my daughter."