He talked of the island while the servants were there. He spoke without enthusiasm for it nor any great show of interest, but beneath that cold manner I sensed that he had a great feeling for it. He commanded it. He was holding it for his master, Philip the Second, a strange silent man such as himself. They were different these Spaniards; they did not laugh aloud as we did; they thought us barbarians.

He told me then how the Guanches who were the natives of the island stained their skins the dark-red resin of the dragon trees and how they mummified their dead.

It was interesting and I wanted to know more and more of the island. He said that Pico de Teide was regarded by the Guanches as a kind of god who must be placated, and a fine sight it was towering above the plains with its snowcapped top which never changed even where there was burning heat below.

It was when the meal had been finished and we were alone that I realized the reason he had invited me to sup with him.

He said: “You went into La Laguna and saw the Cathedral.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You must not act as a heretic in La Laguna.”

“I shall act as I please and as I am doubtless what you will call a heretic I shall perforce act as one.”

“When you visit the Cathedral you must show Catholic respect for the Virgin and the altar; you must kneel and pray as others do.”

“Would you have me a hypocrite?”

“I am determined that you shall bear the child. I would not wish aught to happen to you that would prevent it.”

I put my hands on my body. I used to delude myself into fancying that I could feel the child. It was absurd, it was much too soon; but I was already so much aware of it.

“What should prevent it?” I demanded.

“You could be taken before the Inquisition. You could be questioned.”

“I! What have I to do with the Inquisition?”

“This is Spain. Oh, I know we are an island far from Spain; but Spain is wherever we settle and that will be in every part of the globe.”

“Never in England,” I said proudly.

“There too. I assure you it will be so in due course of time.”

“Then I assure you it will never be so.” I had a vision of Jake Pennlyon, his eyes flashing scorn, brandishing his cutlass and crying out to the Spanish Dons to come and see what they would find.

“Listen to me,” he said, “’ere long the whole world will be ours. We shall bring the Holy Inquisition to your land … as it is here and in every place on earth where Spain has laid its hand. No one can escape from it. If you were taken, even I could not save you. The Inquisition stands above all … even above our Most High King, Philip.”

“I am no Spaniard. They would not dare touch me.”

“They have touched many of your countrymen. Be wise. Listen to me. You will start instruction in the True Faith tomorrow.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“You are more foolish than I thought. You must be shown what happens to those who defy the truth.”

“Whose truth? Yours? You who trample over the innocent to gain your revenge. You have taken three women from their homes; you have submitted them to degradation and pain; you have killed a good man because he tried to protect his wife. And you talk to me about your faith, the True Faith, the only faith.”

“Be silent.” For the first time I saw him moved. “Know you not that servants may hear?”

“They do not speak my barbarian language, remember, except the two villains whom you employed to bring us here.”

“I will be tolerant. I will beg of you to be calm. I ask you to listen in a civilized manner.”

“You talk to me of civilized behavior. It is as funny as speaking of your religious virtues.”

“I speak for your good. I speak for you and the child.”

“Your bastard which was forced on me.” Yet even as I said those words I murmured a reassurance to the child. “Nay, nay, little one, I want you. I’m glad you are there. Wait until I hold you in my arms.”

My voice must have faltered, for he said gently, “That is past and done. Nor can it be undone. It was your misfortune that you were the betrothed of this brigand. You have the child. Bear it and accept your fate. I swear to you that from now on I mean no harm to you. Will you accept that?”

I did, but I said: “Having harmed me in such a manner that must leave its mark on me forever, perhaps you do mean that.”

“I assure you it is so. I never meant harm to you. You were necessary to the fulfillment of my vow. Now I would give you the comfort you will need until the child is born.”

“You promised I should go home when the child was conceived.”

“I have said I must see the child is born. For that reason you will stay here; but while you are here I wish you to live securely and in peace. And for that reason you will listen to me.”

I cried: “Do not think I can be placated with gifts of velvet.”

“It was no gift of mine. The shop woman sent it for you.”

“Why should she?”

“Because we buy much cloth from her and she wishes to please me by offering you this gift.”

“Why should it please you?”

“Surely you understand. She believes, as many will, that you are my mistress. That you have been brought here to live with me and in such case what pleased you will please me and put the donor in favor.”

“Your mistress! How dare she.”

“It is what you are in a sense. Let us face the facts. And in these circumstances you will have some protection. But as I told you even I cannot protect you from the mighty Inquisition. That is why I wish you to be instructed in the True Faith. John Gregory, who is indeed a priest, will instruct you. You must listen. I do not want you to be taken away … before the child is born.”

“I refuse,” I said.

He sighed. “You are unwise,” he answered. “I will tell you what has happened in your country while you have been away. Your Queen is a foolish woman. She might have married Philip when her sister died. It would have been an opportunity to have united our countries. It would have saved much trouble.”

“She could not take her sister’s husband. Moreover, he did not give a very good account of himself as a husband, I fancy.”

“The fault lay in that poor barren woman. And now her foolish half sister, the bastard Elizabeth, has the throne.”

“In which her country rejoices,” I said. “Long may she live.”

“It is long since you left home. Her throne is shaking now. She will not long occupy it. The true Queen Mary of France and Scotland shall take it and when that has been done the True Faith will be restored to England.”

“With the accompaniment of your Holy Inquisition?”

“It will be necessary. There will be a great purge of heretics in your island.”

“God forbid,” I said. “We have had enough. We remember the Smithfield fires. We’ll have no more of them.”

“The faith will be restored,” he said. “It is imminent.”

“The people are firmly behind the Queen.” I was remembering her accession, how nobly she had spoken as she entered the Tower. “I must bear myself to God thankful and to men merciful…” And my heart swelled with loyalty toward her and hatred toward all her enemies.

“They will no longer be so,” he told me. “Certain events have changed the people’s feelings for the Queen.”

“I do not believe it.”

He studied me coolly in the light of the candles.

“The Queen made Robert Dudley her Master of Horse. Rumor has it that she wished to marry him. He had a wife. He had married earlier, impulsively, some said, for as events turned out he could have been destined for a high place. King no less—though mayhap in name only—for the Queen doted on him. She is a coquette, a frivolous woman; she is coy toward all men, but we hear that the feeling she has for Robert Dudley goes deeper. Now his wife, Amy Robsart, has died somewhat mysteriously. Her body was found at the bottom of a staircase. Who shall know how she died? Some say she threw herself from the top of the staircase because she could no longer bear the neglect of her husband; those who would placate your Queen and Lord Robert will tell you that she suffered an accident. But there are many who will say she was murdered.”