The other shook his head.

“No,” he said slowly, “it was not really I who sent for you.  It was Her Majesty, the Queen.”

Before he had time for response the toreador caught the sound of a shaken curtain behind him, but since he stood facing the King he did not turn.

Karyl, however, looked up, and then swiftly crossed the room.  As he passed, Blanco wheeled to face him and was in time to see him holding back the portieres of a door for the Queen to enter.

She was gowned in black with the sparkle of passementerie and jet, and at her breast she wore a single red rose.  As she stood for a moment on the threshold, despite the majesty of her slender poise it appeared to Blanco that her grace was rather that of something wild and free and that the Palace seemed to cage her.  But that may have been because, as she paused, her hands went to her breast and a furrow came between her brows, while the corners of her lips drooped wistfully like a child’s.

The King stooped to kiss her hand, and she turned toward him with a smile which was pallid and which did not dissipate the unhappiness of her face.  Then Karyl straightened and said to Blanco, who felt himself suddenly grow awkward as a muleteer:  “The Queen.”

Manuel dropped on one knee.  At a gesture from Cara he rose and waited for her to speak.  Karyl himself halted at the door for a moment, then came slowly back into the room.  He picked up from a tabouret a decoration of the Star of Galavia, and, crossing over, pinned it to the Spaniard’s lapel.

“There!” he said, with a good-humored laugh.  “You made me a somewhat valueless present a few days back.  You will find that equally useless, Sir Manuel.  You may tell Mr. Benton that I envy him such an ally.”

With a bow to the Queen, the King left the apartment.

For a moment the girl stood at the door, with the same expression and the same silence, unbroken by her since her entrance, then she turned to the Spaniard and spoke directly.  Her voice held a tremor.

“How is he?”

“I have not seen him since the day on the mountain,” returned Manuel.

“He has, in you, a very true friend.”

“Your Majesty, I am his servant,” deprecated the toreador.

“If I had friends like you,” she smiled, “it would matter little what they called themselves.  And yet, if there is but one like you, I had rather that that one be with him.  I want you to go to him now and remain with him.”

“Your Majesty, Senor Benton left me here to watch for recurring dangers.  I am now satisfied that nothing threatens, at least for the present.  I might, as Your Majesty suggests, better be with him.”

“Yes—­yes—­with him!” she eagerly agreed; then her voice took on the timbre of anxiety.  “I am afraid.  Sometimes I am afraid for him.  He is not a coward, but there are times when we all become weak.  I appoint you, Sir Manuel—­” the girl smiled wanly—­“I appoint you my Ambassador to be with him and watch after him—­and, Sir Manuel—­” her voice shook a little with very deep feeling—­“I am giving you the office I had rather have than all the thrones in Christendom!  Will you accept it?”