Fair Margaret | Page 8

hall, where for the most part they ate and sat, for thence he heard
the sound of voices. It was a fine room, lit by hanging lamps of olive
oil, and having a large, open hearth where a fire burned pleasantly,
while the oaken table in front of it was set for supper. Margaret, who
had thrown off her cloak, stood warming herself at the fire, and the
Señor d'Aguilar, comfortably seated in a big chair, which he seemed to
have known for years, leaned back, his bonnet in his hand, and watched
her idly.
Facing them stood John Castell, a stout, dark-bearded man of between
fifty and sixty years of age, with a clever, clean-cut face and piercing
black eyes. Now, in the privacy of his home, he was very richly attired
in a robe trimmed with the costliest fur, and fastened with a gold chain
that had a jewel on its clasp. When Castell served in his shop or sat in
his counting-house no merchant in London was more plainly dressed;
but at night, loving magnificence at heart, it was his custom thus to
indulge in it, even when there were none to see him. From the way in
which he stood, and the look upon his face, Peter knew at once that he
was much disturbed. Hearing his step, Castell wheeled round and
addressed him at once in the clear, decided voice which was his
characteristic.
"What is this I am told, Peter? A man killed by you before the palace
gates? A broil! A public riot in which things went near to great
bloodshed between the English, with you at the head of them, and the
bodyguard of his Excellency, de Ayala. You arrested by the king, and
bailed out by this señor. Is all this true?"
"Quite," answered Peter calmly.
"Then I am ruined; we are all ruined. Oh! it was an evil hour when I
took one of your bloodthirsty trade into my house. What have you to
say?"
"Only that I want my supper," said Peter. "Those who began the story
can finish it, for I think their tongues are nimbler than my own," and he
glanced wrathfully at Margaret, who laughed outright, while even the
solemn d'Aguilar smiled.

"Father," broke in Margaret, "do not be angry with cousin Peter, whose
only fault is that he hits too hard. It is I who am to blame, for I wished
to stop to see the king against his will and Betty's, and then--then that
brute," and her eyes filled with tears of shame and anger, "caught hold
of me, and Peter threw him down, and afterwards, when he attacked
him with a sword, Peter killed him with his staff, and--all the rest
happened."
"It was beautifully done," said d'Aguilar in his soft voice and foreign
accent. "I saw it all, and made sure that you were dead. The parry I
understood, but the way you got your smashing blow in before he could
thrust again--ah! that----"
"Well, well," said Castell, "let us eat first and talk afterwards. Señor
d'Aguilar, you will honour my poor board, will you not, though it is
hard to come from a king's feast to a merchant's fare?"
"It is I who am honoured," answered d'Aguilar; "and as for the feast,
his Grace is sparing in this Lenten season. At least, I could get little to
eat, and, therefore, like the señor Peter, I am starved."
Castell rang a silver bell which stood near by, whereon servants
brought in the meal, which was excellent and plentiful. While they
were setting it on the table, the merchant went to a cupboard in the
wainscoting, and took thence two flasks, which he uncorked himself
with care, saying that he would give the señor some wine of his own
country. This done, he said a Latin grace and crossed himself, an
example which d'Aguilar followed, remarking that he was glad to find
that he was in the house of a good Christian.
"What else did you think that I should be?" asked Castell, glancing at
him shrewdly.
"I did not think at all, Señor," he answered; "but alas! every one is not a
Christian. In Spain, for instance, we have many Moors and--Jews."
"I know," said Castell, "for I trade with them both."

"Then you have never visited Spain?"
"No; I am an English merchant. But try that wine, Señor; it came from
Granada, and they say that it is good."
D'Aguilar tasted it, then drank off his glass.
"It is good, indeed," he said; "I have not its equal in my own cellars
there."
"Do you, then, live in Granada, Señor d'Aguilar?" asked Castell.
"Sometimes, when I am not travelling. I have a house there which my
mother left me. She loved the town,