the splendid woman at her side, whose beauty she knew well over-shadowed 

her own rarer loveliness, at any rate in a street pageant, as in the 

sunshine the rose overshadows the lily. 

"Well," answered Betty, "if so, it is because I put the better face on 

things, and smile even if my heart bleeds. At least, your lot is more 

hopeful than mine. If your husband has to fight to the death presently, 

so has mine, and between ourselves I favour Peter's chances. He is a 

very stubborn fighter, Peter, and wonderfully strong--too stubborn and 

strong for any Spaniard." 

"Well, that is as it should be," said Margaret, smiling faintly, "seeing 

that Peter is your champion, and if he loses, you are stamped as a 

serving-girl, and a woman of no character." 

"A serving-girl I was, or something not far different," replied Betty in 

a reflective voice, "and my character is a matter between me and Heaven, 

though, after all, it might scrape through where others fail to pass. So 

these things do not trouble me over much. What troubles me is that if my 

champion wins he kills my husband." 

"You don't want him to be killed then?" asked Margaret, glancing at her. 

"No, I think not," answered Betty with a little shake in her voice, and 

turning her head aside for a moment. "I know he is a scoundrel, but, you 

see, I always liked this scoundrel, just as you always hated him, so I 

cannot help wishing that he was going to meet some one who hits a little 

less hard than Peter. Also, if he dies, without doubt his heirs will 

raise suits against me." 

"At any rate your father is not going to be burnt to-morrow," said 

Margaret to change the subject, which, to tell the truth, was an 

awkward one. 

"No, Cousin, if my father had his deserts, according to all accounts, 

although the lineage that I gave of him is true enough, doubtless he was 

burnt long ago, and still goes on burning--in Purgatory, I mean--though 

God knows I would never bring a faggot to his fire. But Master Castell 

will not be burnt, so why fret about it." 

"What makes you say that?" asked Margaret, who had not confided the 

details of a certain plot to Betty. 

"I don't know, but I am sure that Peter will get him out somehow. He is 

a very good stick to lean on, Peter, although he seems so hard and 

stupid and silent, which, after all, is in the nature of sticks. But 

look, there is the cathedral--is it not a fine place?--and a great crowd 

of people waiting round the gate. Now smile, Cousin. Bow and smile as