At length Frey Miguel seemed to resolve himself.
"Since you ask me, why should I not tell you? When I was on my
way to preach the funeral oration in the Cathedral at Lisbon, as
befitted one who had been Don Sebastian's preacher, I was warned
by a person of eminence to have a care of what I said of Don
Sebastian, for not only was he alive, but he would be secretly
present at the Requiem."
He met her dilating glance, noted the quivering of her parted
lips.
"But that," he added, "was fifteen years ago, and since then I
have had no sign. At first I thought it possible . . . there was
a story afloat that might have been true . . . But fifteen
years!" He sighed, and shook his head.
"What . . . what was the story?" She was trembling from head to
foot.
"On the night after the battle three horsemen rode up to the
gates of the fortified coast-town of Arzilla. When the timid
guard refused to open to them, they announced that one of them
was King Sebastian, and so won admittance. One of the three was
wrapped in a cloak, his face concealed, and his two companions
were observed to show him the deference due to royalty."
"Why, then . . ." she was beginning.
"Ah, but afterwards," he interrupted her, "afterwards, when all
Portugal was thrown into commotion by that tale, it was denied
that King Sebastian had been among these horsemen.
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