This was Adrian’s chance.  In an instant he was on him and had the point of his rapier at his throat.  But he did not stab at once, not from any compunction, but because he wished his enemy to feel a little before he died, for, like all his race, Adrian could be vindictive and bloodthirsty enough when his hate was roused.  Rapidly Ramiro considered the position.  In a physical sense he was helpless, for Adrian had one foot upon his breast, the other upon his sword-arm, and the steel at his throat.  Therefore if time were given him he must trust to his wit.

“Make ready, you are about to die,” said Adrian.

“I think not,” replied the prostrate Ramiro.

“Why not?” asked Adrian, astonished.

“If you will be so kind as to move that sword-point a little—­it is pricking me—­thank you.  Now I will tell you why.  Because it is not usual for a son to stick his father as though he were a farmyard pig.”

“Son?  Father?” said Adrian.  “Do you mean——?”

“Yes, I do mean that we have the happiness of filling those sacred relationships to each other.”

“You lie,” said Adrian.

“Let me stand up and give me my sword, young sir, and you shall pay for that.  Never yet did a man tell the Count Juan de Montalvo that he lied, and live.”

“Prove it,” said Adrian.

“In this position, to which misfortune, not skill, has reduced me, I can prove nothing.  But if you doubt it, ask your mother, or your hosts, or consult the registers of the Groote Kerke, and see whether on a date, which I will give you, Juan de Montalvo was, or was not, married to Lysbeth van Hout, of which marriage was born one Adrian.  Man, I will prove it to you.  Had I not been your father, would you have been saved from the Inquisition with others, and should I not within the last five minutes had run you through twice over, for though you fought well, your swordsmanship is no match for mine?”

“Even if you are my father, why should I not kill you, who have forced me to your will by threats of death, you who wronged and shamed me, you because of whom I have been hunted through the streets like a mad dog, and made an outcast?” And Adrian looked so fierce, and brought down his sword so close, that hope sank very low in Ramiro’s heart.

“There are reasons which might occur to the religious,” he said, “but I will give you one that will appeal to your own self-interest.  If you kill me, the curse which follows the parricide will follow you to your last hour—­of the beyond I say nothing.”

“It would need to be a heavy one,” answered Adrian, “if it was worse than that of which I know.”  But there was hesitation in his voice, for Ramiro, the skilful player upon human hearts, had struck the right string, and Adrian’s superstitious nature answered to the note.