road along the river by
which it was known that the legate had departed. All that morning
they rode briskly amain, the Infante fasting, as he had risen, yet
unconscious of hunger and of all else but the purpose that was consuming
him. He rode in utter silence, his face set, his brows stern; and Moniz,
watching him furtively the while, wondered what thoughts were stirring
in that rash, impetuous young brain, and was afraid.

Towards noon at last they overtook the legate's party. They espied his
mule-litter at the door of an inn in a little village some ten miles
beyond the foothills of the Bussaco range. The Infante reined up
sharply, a hoarse, fierce cry escaping him, akin to that of some
creature of the wild when it espies its prey.

Moniz put forth a hand to seize his arm.

"My lord, my lord," he cried, fearfully. "What is your purpose?"

The prince looked him between the eyes, and his lips curled in a smile
that was not altogether sweet.

"I am going to beg Cardinal Corrado to have compassion on me," he
answered, subtly mocking, and on that he swung down from his horse, and
tossed the reins to a man-at-arms.

Into the inn he clanked, Moniz and Nunes following closely. He thrust
aside the vinter who, not knowing him, would have hindered him, great
lord though he seemed, from disturbing the holy guest who was honouring
the house. He strode on, and into the room where the Cardinal with his
noble nephews sat at dinner.

At sight of him, fearing violence, Giannino and Pierluigi came instantly
to their feet, their hands upon their daggers. But Cardinal da Corrado
sat unmoved. He looked up, a smile of ineffable gentleness upon his
ascetic face.

"I had hoped that you would come after me, my son," he said. "If you
come a penitent, then has my prayer been heard."

"A penitent!" cried Affonso Henriques. He laughed wickedly, and plucked
his dagger from its sheath.

Sancho Nunes, in terror, set a detaining hand upon his prince's arm.

"My lord," he cried in a voice that shook, "you will not strike the
Lord's anointed--that were to destroy yourself for ever."

"A curse," said Affonso Henriques, "perishes with him that uttered it."
He could reason loosely, you see, this hot-blooded, impetuous young
cutter of Gordian knots. "And it imports above all else that the curse
should be lifted from my city of Coimbra."

"It shall be, my son, as soon as you show penitence and a Christian
submission to the Holy Father's will,