wered, reddening and averting her face from
his questioning eyes.

"Madame," he had faltered, "I dare not."

"Dare not?"

"Madame, how should I? I am an old man, broken by sickness, disheartened
by misfortune, daunted by tribulation--a mere husk cast aside by
Fortune, whilst you are lovely as one of the angels about the Throne of
Heaven."

She had looked into the haggard face, into the scars of suffering that
seared it, and she had answered gently: "Tomorrow you shall come to me
at Chantenac, my friend."

"I am a Spaniard, for whom to-morrow never comes."

"But it will this time. To-morrow I shall expect you."

He looked up at her sitting her great black horse beside which he had
been pacing.

"Better not, madame! Better not!" he had said.

And then he saw the eyes that had been tender grow charged with scorn;
then came her angry taunt:

"You a Spaniard of Spain! I do not believe it!"

Oh, there was no doubt that he had angered her. Women of her temperament
are quick to anger as to every emotion. But he had not wished to anger
her. God knows it was never the way of Antonio Perez to anger lovely
women--at least not in this fashion. And it was an ill return for her
gentleness and attention to himself. Considering this as he sat there
now, he resolved that he must make amends--the only amends it was
possible to make.

An hour later, in one of the regal rooms of the castle, where he enjoyed
the hospitality of King Henri IV of France and Navarre, he announced
to that most faithful equerry, Gil de Mesa, his intention of riding to
Chantenac to-morrow.

"Is it prudent?" quoth Mesa, frowning.

"Most imprudent," answered Don Antonio. "That is why I go."

And on the morrow he went, escorted by a single groom. Gil de Mesa had
begged at first to be allowed to accompany him. But for Gil he had other
work, of which the instructions he left were very full. The distance was
short--three miles along the Gave de Pau--and Don Antonio covered it on
a gently ambling mule, such as might have been bred to bear some aged
dignitary of Holy Church.

The lords of Chantenac were as noble, as proud, and as poor as most
great lords of Bearn. Their lineage was long, their rent-rolls short.
And the last marquis had suffered more from this dual complaint than
any of his forbears, and he had not at all improved matters by a certain
habit of gaming contracted in youth. The chateau bore abundant signs of
it. It was a burnt red pile st