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Updated: May 13, 2025
On leaving Bristol's house he at once hurried to the royal palace, and, filled with his weighty tidings, burst upon Count Olivares, the king's favorite, at supper. Gondomar's face was beaming. Olivares looked at him in surprise. "What brings you so late?" he asked. "One would think that you had got the king of England in Madrid."
Additional complexity had been given to his position from the circumstance that, at De Gondomar's secret instance, of which, like all the rest, he was unaware, he had been appointed as officer in custody of Hugh Calveley, until the latter, who was still detained a close prisoner in the porter's lodge, should be removed to the Tower, or the Fleet, as his Majesty might direct.
A smile of intelligence passed between Prince Charles and Buckingham; and some remark was made by the latter, to which the Prince replied by a gesture, seeming to intimate that the interruption was not altogether unexpected by him. De Gondomar's looks also betrayed that he was likewise in the secret.
"I swear to requite it if I can and as you desire," Jocelyn cried, struck by the other's manner. "Enough!" the masked personage rejoined. "I am satisfied. Proceed on your way, and may good fortune attend you! Your destiny is in your own hands. Obey Count Gondomar's behests, and he will aid you effectually."
Among the slain were the Governor of Manoa, who was Gondomar's own brother, and Sir Walter's eldest son. To Ralegh, waiting at the mouth of the Orinoco, came his beaten forces in retreat, with the terrible news of a happening that meant his ruin.
And this supposition might account for the delay since he knew that Sir Giles was suffering severely from the effects of the blow he had dealt him in the tilt-yard. De Gondomar's were not idle threats, as Sir Jocelyn soon found.
But, alack! he found a library swept and garnished; no trace of the volume he had once held there in his hand, and on the face of his friend the librarian only a frank and peevish wonder that anybody should tease him with questions about such a trifle. But just dream a little! Who sent the volume? Who wrote the thick marginal notes? An English correspondent of Gondomar's?
In fact, he had unconsciously become little more than a puppet in the hands of the plotting Spaniard, who pulled the strings that moved him at pleasure, regardless of the consequences. What De Gondomar's ulterior designs were with him had not yet become manifest.
And was the book overlooked as English and of no importance in the transfer of Gondomar's own library, a hundred and sixty years after his death, to Charles III of Spain? And had it been sold, perhaps, for an old song, and with other remnants of Gondomar's books, just for their local interest, to some Valladolid grandee?
We have heard of De Gondomar's perfidy, and his Majesty's injustice. We will set you right. The bold London 'prentices have taken your cause in hand, and will avenge you. They will hang the treacherous Spaniard, and burn his house." "Hark ye, my good friend, Dick Taverner," said Sir Jocelyn, "this must not be.
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