“Is it possible,” the knight returned, regarding sorrowfully the mean figure shown by the torches the soldiers held aloft for the purpose.
“He speaks the truth—I am that unfortunate man,” the count said dejectedly.
Upon which Padilh exclaimed—“It would be a shame to knighthood to see the representative of any king stand bare-headed,” and placed his own bonnet on the viceroy’s head.
“Give me your word as a knight and nobleman that you will not attempt to escape Señor Count,” he added immediately.
“It would be so vain to think of it, that I pledge my honor willingly, sir,” the count rejoined, “if it gives you any satisfaction.”
“Unbind his arms,” the maître-de-camp said, turning to the officer, “I will be responsible. See that he wants no comfort, and let his expenses be set to my cost. A viceroy in such condition has had his share of misfortune already.”
With which injunction spoken aside the knight hastened on.
“If that is not your Cid returned to life,” the count said slightly smiling, “it can only be Don Pedro de Padilh.”
“You are right,” the officer replied, unloosening his cord, “he is the very mirror of Spanish chivalry.”
Meantime, the maître-de-camp, followed by his suite, rapidly neared the quarters of the marquis. From a swift walk they fell into a run.