anding four-square on a little eminence,
about the base of which the river went winding turbulently; it was
turreted at each of its four angles, imposing in its way, but in a sad
state of dilapidation and disrepair.

The interior, when Don Antonio reached it, was rather better; the
furnishings, though sparse, were massive and imposing; the tapestries on
the walls, if old, were rich and choice. But everywhere the ill-assorted
marriage of pretentiousness and neediness was apparent. The floors of
hall and living-room were strewn with fresh-cut rushes, an obsolescent
custom which served here alike to save the heavy cost of carpets and to
lend the place an ancient baronial dignity. Whilst pretence was made of
keeping state, the servitors were all old, and insufficient in number
to warrant the retention of the infirm seneschal by whom Don Antonio was
ceremoniously received. A single groom, aged and without livery, took
charge at once of Don Antonio's mule, his servant's horse, and the
servant himself.

The seneschal, hobbling before him, conducted our Spaniard across the
great hall, gloomy and half denuded, through the main living-room of the
chateau into a smaller, more intimate apartment, holding some trace of
luxury, which he announced as madame's own room. And there he left him
to await the coming of the chatelaine.

She, at least, showed none of the outward disrepair of her surroundings.
She came to him sheathed in a gown of shimmering silk that was of the
golden brown of autumn tints, caught to her waist by a slender girdle of
hammered gold. Eyes of deepest blue pondered him questioningly, whilst
red lips smiled their welcome. "So you have come in spite of all?" she
greeted him. "Be very welcome to my poor house, Don Antonio."

And regally she proffered her hand to his homage.

He took it, observing the shapely, pointed fingers, the delicately
curving nails. Reluctantly, almost, he admitted to himself how complete
was her beauty, how absolute her charm. He sighed--a sigh for that lost
youth of his, perhaps--as he bowed from his fine, lean height to press
cold lips of formal duty on that hand.

"Your will, madame, was stronger than my prudence," said he.

"Prudence?" quoth she, and almost sneered. "Since when has Antonio Perez
stooped to prudence?"

"Since paying the bitter price of imprudence. You know my story?"

"A little. I know, for instance, that you murdered Escovedo--all the
world knows that. Is that th