sure his drunken associate.

"Why, for what could the man ask such a price?" Arden asked, with light
surprise.

In a moment the other's large and vacuous countenance became sober
enough. "For a trap to catch flies," he said, shortly, and turning his
shoulder to all but the men of highest rank, again wetted his throat,
then let his empty tankard touch the board with a clattering sound.

From the first he had drawn attention, and now at the drumming of the
tankard most faces turned his way. Nevil spoke to Drake beneath his
breath; the latter bending towards Alonzo Brava, addressed him in a very
low tone. Brava, deeply annoyed, on the point of signalling his
servitors to "quietly persuade from the table his drunken guest,
listened, though still frowning. A final whisper from Drake:

"In no way toucheth your honor, a private matter--favors--ransom--"

The governor, leaning forward, playing with his wine, gave some sign of
acquiescence--perhaps, indeed, may have had his own indifferences to any
blackening of the character of Don Luiz de Guardiola, now nourishing at
Madrid like a green bay-tree.

Mexia was displaying profound skill in the nice balancement of his
tankard as the servant behind him refilled the measure. "Ha, Don Pedro!"
cried Drake, with his bluff laugh, "art on that four-years-gone matter
of Nueva Cordoba? Methinks Sir John Nevil brought off a knightly
sufficiency of credit--"

"Sir John Nevil--Oh! Ay!" said Mexia, and with both hands carefully
lowered the tankard to the level of the table. "Did Sir Mortimer Ferne
bring forth such a--what's the word?--knightly sufficiency? Now I've
often wondered--'Tis true I had my grudge against him also, but in such
matters I go not so far as De Guardiola, who brands the soul.... I told
Don Luiz as much four years ago. 'Why, I kill my man,' quoth I, 'and go
on my way singing.'"

"And what said he to that?" queried Arden, lightly and easily drawing on
Mexia, who, in his cups, became merely a garrulous old man.

"Why," continued the envoy, "he said, 'Mayhap the dead do not remember.
So live, my foe! but live in hell, remembering the brand upon thy soul,
and that 'twas I who set it glowing there!'"

A murmur ran the length of the table. Mexia suddenly found himself of a
steadier brain with somewhat stronger interest in rencontres new or old.
"Ha! Sir Mortimer Ferne and his knot of velvet! Don Luiz ground _that_
beneath his heel.... Well, the man's dead, no doubt. I'v