were just then more or less in liquor.

One of these fellows, a great, red-haired Scotchman, whom the priest-
diplomatist had brought with him from that country, where he had also
been ambassador, suddenly perceiving before him a woman who appeared to
be young and pretty, determined to examine her more closely, and to this
end made use of a rude stratagem. Pretending to stumble, he grasped at
Margaret's cloak as though to save himself, and with a wrench tore it
open, revealing her beautiful face and graceful figure.

"A dove, comrades!--a dove!" he shouted in a voice thick with drink,
"who has flown here to give me a kiss." And, casting his long arms about
her, he strove to draw her to him.

"Peter! Help me, Peter!" cried Margaret as she struggled fiercely in his
grip.

"No, no, if you want a saint, my bonny lass," said the drunken
Scotchman, "Andrew is as good as Peter," at which witticism those of the
others who understood him laughed, for the man's name was Andrew.

Next instant they laughed again, and to the ruffian Andrew it seemed as
though suddenly he had fallen into the power of a whirlwind. At least
Margaret was wrenched away from him, while he spun round and round to
fall violently upon his face.

"That's Peter!" exclaimed one of the soldiers in Spanish.

"Yes," answered another, "and a patron saint worth having"; while a
third pulled the recumbent Andrew to his feet.