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he would give the senor 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
"What else did you think that I should be?" asked Castell, glancing at
"I did not think at all, Senor," 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, Senor; 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
"Do you, then, live in Granada, Senor d'Aguilar?" asked Castell.
"Sometimes, when I am not travelling. I have a house there which my
mother left me. She loved the town, and bought an old palace from the
Moors. Would you not like to see Granada, Senora?" he asked, turning to
Margaret as though to change the subject. "There is a wonderful building
there called the Alhambra; it overlooks my house."
"My daughter is never likely to see it," broke in Castell; "I do not
purpose that she should visit Spain."
"Ah! you do not purpose; but who knows? God and His saints alone," and
again he crossed himself, then fell to describing the beauties
He was a fine and ready talker, and his voice was very pleasant, so
Margaret listened attentively enough, watching his face, and forgetting
to eat, while her father and Peter watched them both. At length the meal
came to an end, and when the serving-men had cleared away the dishes,
and they were alone, Castell said:
"Now, kinsman Peter, tell me your story."
So Peter told him, in few words, yet omitting nothing.
"I find no blame in you," said the merchant when he had done, "nor do I
see how you could have acted otherwise than you did. It is Margaret whom
I blame, for I only gave her leave to walk with you and Betty by the
river, and bade her beware of crowds."
"Yes, father, the fault is mine, and for it I pray your pardon," said
Margaret, so meekly that her father could not find the heart to scold
her as he had meant to do.
"You should ask Peter's pardon," he muttered, "seeing that he is like to
be laid by the heels in a dungeon over this business, yes, and put upon
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