Part 21

I sought to pull my arm from his, but he clung to it and pinned it to his side.

“Nay, now--nay, now!” he soothed me. “Not so hot, my friend. What the devil have I said to provoke resentment? I advise you as your friend.”

“In future advise that other friend of yours, the devil,” I answered angrily, and pulled my arm away at last. “Don Juan, you have presumed, I think. I did not seek your advice. It is yourself that stands in need of advice this moment more than any man in Spain.”

“Lord of the World,” he exclaimed in amiable protest, “listen to him! I speak because I owe friendship to the Princess. Men whisper of your comings and goings, I tell you. And the King, you know well, should he hear of this I am in danger of losing my only friend at Court, and so--”

“Another word of this,” I broke in fiercely, “now or at any other time, and I'll skewer you like a rabbit!”

I had stopped. My face was thrust within a hand's-breadth of his own; I had tossed back my cloak, and my fingers clutched the hilt of my sword. He became grave. His fine eyes--he had great, sombre, liquid eyes, such as you'll scarcely ever see outside of Spain--considered me thoughtfully a moment. Then he laughed lightly and fell back a pace.

“Pish!” said he. “Saint James! I am no rabbit for your skewering. If it comes to skewers, I am a useful man of my hands, Antonio. Come, man”--and again he took my arm--“if I presume, forgive it out of the assurance that I am moved solely by interest and concern for you. We have been friends too long that I should be denied.”

I had grown cool again, and I realized that perhaps my show of anger had been imprudent. So I relented now, and we went our ways together without further show of ill-humour on my part, or further advice on his. But the matter did not end there. Indeed, it but began. Going early in the afternoon of the morrow to visit Anne, I found her in tears--tears, as I was to discover, of anger.

Escovedo had been to visit her before me, and he had dared to reproach her on the same subject.

“You are talked about, you and Perez,” he had informed her, “and the thing may have evil consequences. It is because I have eaten your bread that I tell you this for your own good.”

She had risen up in a great passion.

“You will leave my house, and never set foot in it again,” she had told him. “You should learn that grooms and lackeys have no concern in the conduct of great ladies. It is because you have eaten my bread that I tell you this for your own good.”

It drove him out incontinently, but it left her in the condition in which I was later to discover her. I set myself to soothe her. I swore that Escovedo should be punished. But she would not be soothed. She blamed herself for an unpardonable rashness. She should not have taken that tone with Escovedo. He could avenge himself by telling Philip, and if he told Philip, and Philip believed him--as Philip would, being jealous and mistrustful beyond all men--my ruin must follow. She had thought only of herself in dismissing him in that high-handed manner. Coming since to think of me it was that she had fallen into this despair. She clung to me in tears.

“Forgive me, Antonio. The fault is all mine--the fault of all. Always have I known that this danger must overhang you as a penalty for loving me. Always I knew it, and, knowing it, I should have been stronger. I should have sent you from me at the first. But I was so starved of love from childhood till I met you. I hungered so for love--for your love, Antonio--that I had not the strength. I was weak and selfish, and because I was ready and glad to pay the price myself, whatever it should be and whenever asked, I did not take thought enough for you.”

“Take no thought now,” I implored her, holding her close.

“I must. I can't help it. I have raised this peril for you. He will go to Philip.”

“Not he; he dare not. I am his only hope. I am the ladder by which he hopes to scale the heaven of his high ambition. If he destroys me, there is the kennel for himself. He knows it.”

“Do you say that to comfort me, or is it really true?”

“God's truth, sweetheart,” I swore, and drew her closer.

She was comforted long before I left her. But as I stepped out into the street again a man accosted me. Evidently he had been on the watch, awaiting me. He fell into step beside me almost before I realized his presence. It was Escovedo.

“So,” he said, very sinister, “you'll not be warned.”

“Nor will you,” I answered, no whit less sinister myself.

It was broad daylight. A pale March sunshine was beating down upon the cobbled streets, and passers-by were plentiful. There was no fingering of hilts or talk of skewering on either side. Nor must I show any of the anger that was boiling in me. My face was too well known in Madrid streets, and a Secretary of State does not parade emotions to the rabble. So I walked stiff and dignified amain, that dog in step with me the while.

“She will have told you what I have said to her,” he murmured.

“And what she said to you. It was less than your deserts.”

“Groom and lackey, eh?” said he. “And less than I deserve--a man of my estate. Oh, ho! Groom and lackey! Those are epithets to be washed out in blood and tears.”

“You rant,” I said.

“Or else to be paid for--handsomely.” His tone was sly--so sly that I answered nothing, for to answer a sly man is to assist him, and my business was to let him betray the cause of this slyness. Followed a spell of silence. Then, “Do you know,” said he, “that several of her relatives are thinking seriously of killing you?”