Kitabı oxu: «Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 2», səhifə 5

CHAPTER VIII
Don Fadique Goes to Seville

THE Grand Master Don Fadique was not with his brother Enrique. In the first moment of his flight from Valladolid he had crossed the frontier into Portugal.

There, among goatherds and shepherds, for awhile he lay concealed, and when reflection came to him in this solitude, his conscience sorely pricked him for his disloyalty to the king. Whatever punishment his brother and sovereign inflicted on him he felt would be his due. It was not that he mistook Don Pedro’s mind in his treatment of the Lady Blanche, nor did his love and pity for her suffer any diminution, but he could not rid himself of the conviction that he had been a traitor. Blanche’s innocence alone had preserved him from a crime.

His upright and loyal nature revolted against the thought, and in his flight, as he struck the rowels into the glossy sides of the sorrel jennet on which he was mounted, causing it to rear and prance, he felt he could not put distance enough between himself and the dear object of his love.

Poor Blanche! Sweet Blanche! Where was she now? How fared it with her? Did she love him still? And then he checked himself for these guilty thoughts, and drawing from his doublet his jewelled rosary, he vainly tried to drown his thoughts in prayer.

Arrived within the strong fortress of Coimbra, on the coast of Portugal, he heard that his brother Enrique was advancing, at the head of an army, on Toledo, while Don Pedro lingered inactive at Seville. This seemed most strange!

There were rumours that he was waiting for the advance of the English to support him against the French king, furious at the imprisonment of Blanche in the castle of Talavera on the Tagus.

At length a royal messenger arrived at Coimbra direct from the king, an honourable messenger, wearing the noda and banda, the bearer of a letter from Don Pedro.

“Come to Seville,” he wrote, “dear brother, and let us live at peace. I am about to hold a tourney and tilt of reeds on the plains of the Guadalquivir, near the city, and I can ill lack the absence of the Grand Master of Santiago among my knights. A friendly greeting to you, and a safe conduct on the road. Your quarters are at the Alcazar at Seville, from whence I write. – Pedro.”

“And I will go!” cried Don Fadique. “It may perhaps give me the occasion to help the queen. Perhaps Pedro has come to a better mind; he changes suddenly. Or it may be that at this time of risings and rebellions, he may desire the support of the knights of Santiago and the presence of their Grand Master.”

Those of his friends and attendants at Coimbra strove vainly to dissuade him from putting faith in the friendship of the king. It was, at best, they represented, a rash resolve, especially to go to Seville and the Alcazar. If he would join him, let them meet in the open camp, not put himself into danger within a palace inhabited by Maria de Padilla.

At this Don Fadique grew wroth. “What!” he answered, “do you take me for a craven that cannot defend himself? Maybe, surrounded by enemies, he may think of me more kindly. Read the gracious words. Look at the royal messenger, whom we all know as a man who would not lend himself to fraud or treachery. My brother generously sets me free, and I can use that freedom as well at Seville as at any other place. Let Maria de Padilla do her worst. Rather than consume my life in this fortress, I would face the devil himself. Enrique may join with the enemies of Castile and bring Du Guesclin’s free lances to spoil the land, but my place is by my brother in tournament or battle – I will go!”

Buckling on his richest suit of armour, over which he wore the short crimson mantle of his order, with the cross of Santiago embroidered on his breast, he set forth, accompanied by a goodly band of followers hastily armed; also with him he took a little page, his foster-brother, who had never left him, and loved him with the affection of a child.

On the eighth day from his departure he reached the banks of the Tagus, at an old town called Castel Bianco, where he rested.

Now the tale runs, and I will neither deny nor assert it, that the Grand Master received here a message from Queen Blanche, informing him how near she was, and that at night he went out disguised, and, taking a boat, dropped down the river to Talavera, and there saw the Lady Blanche, thanks to the complaisance of the gallant governor – who was so wildly in love with Claire, he could refuse her nothing. This is said, and that a plan of escape was formed by which Blanche could reach Toledo, on which the French were advancing to reinforce the army of Don Enrique el Cavalier, and that Don Fadique at Seville should apprise her of Don Pedro’s movements by means of the little page.

Speaking personally, I do not believe that the Grand Master ever went to the castle or saw Blanche at all, after the remorse he had felt and the confessions he had made, to say nothing of the danger to the queen if Don Pedro found it out. And Don Pedro did find out everything in the most extraordinary way, as people said, by black magic, and that Maria de Padilla looked upon a crystal and saw all she desired to tell the king.

CHAPTER IX
Murder of Don Fadique

ON the fifteenth day from his departure from Coimbra, Don Fadique beheld the domes and pinnacles of Seville – proud Seville as it is called – the Empress of the Plains.

The weather is dark and stormy. Even in the sunny South such changes occur, especially towards the equinox, to which the time approaches. As far as the eye can reach black clouds drive angrily before a northern blast, rushing as it were to bank themselves together towards the sea, and the wind rattles among the windows of the few pleasure-houses which stand outside the walls, swaying the fronds of the palms and the bamboos as if to tear them from the ground.

By the time Don Fadique, riding faster and faster, has reached the fork in the road beside the Hospital del Sangre, the heavens look like a second Deluge.

“Cover yourself well, my boy,” said he to the little page, as he drew his own dark manto over his armour. “The hurricane will be soon upon us. We shall be fortunate if we reach the Alcazar in time.”

As they passed what are now the boulevards, such trees as there were swayed and bowed to the fierce blast, and quickly succeeding thunder was heard among the hills. Not a sound reached them as they struck through the streets to where the beautiful cathedral stands, consecrated as a Christian church by Fernando el Santo, and as yet but little altered from the mosque it was before.

It was part of Don Pedro’s policy in all things to favour the Moors. Indeed, there were times in his strange moods when he swore he was a Mohammedan himself.

As the herald sounds his trumpet-call before the gate of the Alcazar, waiting for the portcullis to be raised, an aged pilgrim in tattered raiment rises up suddenly before Fadique.

“Turn back, my son. Turn while you may,” and he lays his hand on his horse’s bridle. “Take warning by the heavens! The elements are at war. So is man. For the sake of your dead mother I speak. Enter not the Alcazar. Warned by a vision, I girded up my loins, and have walked from the Sierra Morena here. As the blood of Eleanor de Guzman was shed on the stones of Seville, so shall be yours.”

“I heed you not, old man,” answered Don Fadique, shaking him off impatiently, provoked at his insistence in barring his progress. “Hie you back whither you came. My brother has bid me to Seville, and I am come,” and with that he spurred his horse forward; but the noble animal, as though scenting some evil influence in the air, pranced and plunged, and with the utmost difficulty was prevented from turning back.

Again the trumpet sounds a shrill blast. In vain! The Alcazar seems turned into a castle of the dead. No guards are upon the walls, no soldiers on the lookout in the Moorish towers which flank the portcullis. To the summons of the men-at-arms no response is given; the royal standard is not lowered as to an Infante Grand Master of Santiago, nor is there any answer to the reiterated knocking of the little page with the hilt of his sword upon the thickly barred panels of the door. Dismally does the blue-eyed boy look up at his master, a whole soul of love in his eyes, as if gazing at him for the last time, and loudly do his followers murmur to each other at the strange lack of welcome.

Nor can Don Fadique account for it. Growing impatient as the rain begins to fall, he looks about him on all sides. There is no preparation for the tournament of which the letter of Don Pedro spoke. No line of tents along the river bank with rich devices, or pinnacles of silken pavilions dressed with colours and flags breaking the long lines of the Huerta. The streets are silent and empty as the rain now pours down; the vast mosque stands isolated and solitary, veiled by rising mists. No eager crowd gathers round the Puerta del Sol or in the court of the Naranjos, as when festivals and ceremonies draw strangers to Seville. The howling of a dog alone breaks the silence.

At length, with no outward sign, the portcullis is slowly raised, and Don Fadique, spurring his horse, gallops in, but rapidly the great panels sink again, shutting out all his train. As the clink of the iron bolt is heard falling into the staples, a shrill cry of agony rises in the air. The hand of the little page who followed him on foot has been severed from the wrist as he hung onto Don Fadique’s bridle, and lies upon the stones before him.

Don Fadique is alone; no return is possible; his heart sinks within him at the sight, but he can neither help the poor page shut outside, nor liberate himself. It is too late.

Within the Patio de la Monteria the shadows of the Moorish arches rise black in the darkness of the storm, all save the portal of Don Pedro, which blazes out tier upon tier up to the gilded dome.

More and more astonished, Don Fadique dismounts and fastens his horse’s bridle to an iron hook in one of the pillars, and looks round, the glossy-skinned animal giving a whinny of delight as he passes his hand mechanically over its sleek neck. It is the last token of affection he is destined to receive!

Suddenly a burst of shrill laughter from the long row of miradores over the portal arouses him to a full sense of his danger. That he has been betrayed by his brother is certain.

As a drowning man is said in an instant to review all his former life, so Don Fadique recalled the many warnings of evil which had come to him, renewed even at the gate of the Alcazar.

Still his gallant heart did not fail, but when he saw above at the mirador a dark-haired lady leaning out with lustrous eyes, a chill shot through his veins. He felt that his end was near.

Then in the midst of the rattle of the storm, the roll of the thunder, and the quickly succeeding flashes of lightning, there arises a sudden uproar, the clash of weapons, and the heavy tread of mailed feet. Nor has Don Fadique long to wait to assure himself of the welcome Don Pedro has prepared for him.

From under the glowing shadows of the golden portal, a band of armed men rush forth, who drag him forward through tapestried doorways to dimly gorgeous ante-chambers with deeply sunk cedar ceilings overhead, into suites of halls lined with painted panels and azulejo tiles darkly resplendent in escutcheons of castle, lion, bar, tower, and that mysterious nodo which clasps Aragon with Spain, – into the precincts of the great Patio de las Doncellas, so purely beautiful in the whiteness of its lacy arcades.

There, upon the Caliph’s burnished throne, sits Don Pedro, a canopy of gold over his head and damascened draperies behind. A terrible frown knits his brow and his eyes are dilated with rage, but Don Fadique does not heed. Forcing back the guards, he flings himself upon his knees before him.

“Brother! brother!” he cries, “what means this hostile array? I have come upon your word. Tell me that you have not deceived me!”

“Stand off, bold traitor!” answers the king savagely, casting him from him. “Have you forgotten your perfidy at Narbonne? Do you think I did not know that, and all else? Were you fool enough to imagine that I loved you?” and as he speaks he breaks into one of those fiendish peals of laughter, ever so terrible a climax to his wrath. “Surely, if the Lady Blanche is your leman, you are ready to shed your blood for her sake?”

Before this burst of passion the Grand Master stands as if turned to stone.

“What!” continues Don Pedro, ascribing his silence to fear. “Does your heart fail you in my presence? If so it is well,” and he arises as if about to rush upon him.

“Do with me as you list, brother!” answers the Grand Master, “but I swear to you, by this symbol of the living Christ” – and he raises the jewelled cross of his sword high in the air – “for me, the queen is as pure as when she left her mother. Let him who says other stand forth.” With that, tearing his mailed glove from his hand, he flings it upon the floor, the scales of the metal ringing on the marble. “Don Pedro of Castile, will you cross swords with me?” he asks, advancing to the foot of the throne where Don Pedro has seated himself, his eyes gleaming with fury. “By my faith!” and scorn is in Don Fadique’s voice, “you do well not to defend so vile a charge. Blood enough has flowed – my mother’s, my little brother’s, and now my own, whom you have lured here treacherously to slay. Oh! shame and disgrace of knighthood!”

“Miscreant!” roars Don Pedro, wounded to the quick at this reproach. “Prepare to die! On earth your time is short, and, por Dios! you deserve your fate, you smooth-faced hypocrite! Better to be an open foe like Enrique, than a caitiff conspirator! Out on you, you bastard! I will not cross swords with you!”

Stung by his insolence, Don Fadique is rushing upon him, when Don Garcia de Padilla interposes from behind and holds him back.

“Señor Infante, Grand Master of Santiago, you are my prisoner,” he says, laying his hand on his shoulder, and the men-at-arms move forward from the entrance to where he stands.

“I am no man’s prisoner!” cries Don Fadique, putting his hand on his sword. “If all were as faithful to the king, he would have truer followers than he has. Nor shall you take me, vile instrument of a strumpet’s vengeance,” turning to draw his weapon upon Don Garcia, but the hilt of the sword had become so entangled in the embroidered scarf he wears, taken from the queen at Valladolid, nothing will move it.

“Officers,” commands the king, rising from the throne and passing on through the gilded arches into the Hall of the Ambassadors beyond, with that majesty he knows so well how to assume – “do your duty.”

But the guards held back, spite of the order of the king. Don Fadique was an Infante, a great caballero, almost equal to Don Pedro, the Grand Master of Santiago, and moreover, though unarmed, boldly facing them.

“Traitors!” exclaims Don Garcia, drawing his rapier, “do you hesitate?” Then they all fell on Don Fadique, and a struggle for life ensued.

“God and Santiago to my aid!” cries Fadique, rushing from side to side of the open patio pursued by the men-at-arms, Don Garcia all the while standing in his place, and Don Pedro from behind the arches suddenly appearing, and shouting out: “At him! At him! Traitor and bastard! Kill him!”

At last, one of the officers – Hermanes by name, excited by the anger of the king, and seeing that the others were but half-hearted in their attack, touched by the desperate defence of an unarmed man – struck Don Fadique such a blow on the shoulder as felled him to the ground, with his face downwards, the rest falling on him until he died, his long auburn hair, clotted with blood, making a glory round him where he lay.

From the depths of the patio Maria de Padilla appeared, her taper fingers clasping the pearl embroideries of her long robe with such force, that as she moved she strewed them on the floor. She had seen all, hidden by the panels of a Moorish door.

Not for an instant had Don Fadique escaped her, from the moment he entered the Court of the Monteria until his mutilated body lay before her. He was her prey. Now she could assure herself that life was gone. In the calm of death he was beautiful, the last agony only marked in the widely open eyes, full of defiance, and the bloodless lips parted as with a groan.

So like was the dead face to Don Pedro, that for an instant Maria’s heart melted, and she turned away.

“What, Maria,” exclaimed Don Pedro, sneeringly, “fear you to look on the face of a dead enemy? Rather tremble before a living one! The boy is dead; all traitors deserve to die”; and advancing from where he stood in the archway, he spurned the body with his foot, laying bare the pool of blood in which it lay.

And strange to say, after the lapse of five centuries, the stain is there on the marble pavement still, close under three clustered pillars of green porphyry, supporting a richly worked Moorish arch.

But before Maria can reply, a shrill cry rises from the white pillars that makes the patio ring, and an ancient dame hurries forward, and with her stick puts back the guards who stand around.

With a horrified glance at the upturned face of the dead Grand Master, she turns upon the king:

“What bloody work is this, Don Pedro? I have a right to ask, for I reared you both at my breast. Oh! my child, my child!” sinking down beside him on the ground, and tenderly gathering the dead form in her arms. “Oh, my Fadique, my little one. So much you were alike, the queen-mother only knew you from the crown embroidered on Pedro’s robe. Even the queen loved the boy.” Then with a piercing shriek she raises herself from the ground, and her sunken eyes travel round upon the group, first on the king, then on Maria de Padilla. “Let the hand that struck him be accursed!”

“He was my enemy, and I killed him,” answers Don Pedro, but he did not chide her, nor question her right to speak.

“It is that accursed woman!” and the nurse raises her bony fingers and points towards Maria as her tall figure disappears in the deep shadow of the arches. “May Satan take her! And that soon! She has falsely accused him. Oh, Pedro! I loved you as much as him. Now I curse you, you cruel king! By the same bloody death shall you also die. The witch!” shaking her fist towards the spot where Maria has vanished; “a thousand such as she may be found in Spain, but who will replace the true brother that you have lost?” As she speaks, a strange fire shines in her dim eyes, and her wrinkled face is transfigured with a sudden light. The voice in which she speaks seems not her own, but strong and vigorous, as though a wave of youth had passed over her.

“I have spoken,” and she fell prostrate on the body of Don Fadique as the captain of the guard drew his sword, as if to smite her, and his men made a circle round.

“Ask the king if I shall die,” turning to Don Pedro, who has covered his face with his hands. “I care not, but let me lay him on my breast. Oh! child of my love, the youngest and the best!”

“Harm her not, Ruy Gomez,” orders the king, “and let her go.” And in deep thought he turns away.

In his general contempt for all mankind, the king held his nurse in great esteem. When he was sick or wounded she tended him, and in his darkest moods she could approach him when others fled.

But for his promise to Maria de Padilla, he would never have slain a brother who came in peace, under his roof, and now another is to die likewise; he had given her his word. Thinking of all this his brow grew dark as he mounted the secret stair which led into his retiring-room, with the skeleton heads of the four unjust judges hung over the door.

No one dared enter, and for three days and nights he lay there in darkness.

CHAPTER X
Don Pedro – Alcazar – The Queen-Mother – Maria de Padilla

THE Hall of the Ambassadors, literally a blaze of iris hues and gold, is crowned by a lofty dome, and sheeted with a Moorish mosaic of mother-of-pearl and crystal.

Around range the medallions of the ancient Gothic kings, over four golden-barred balconies breaking the richness of the wall, dividing triply-grouped arches, light as dreams, resting on pillars of green and red porphyry, so tall and slender it seems as if a breath would shatter them.

From an open portal is disclosed a palace garden flushed with roses, and bordered by blossoming orange-trees, set in large porcelain pots. Butterflies flutter round delicate fountains banked up with tropical plants exquisite in perfume, and long vistas of bowery walks exclude the sun.

A warm and genial air beats in from without, and permeates around. Nor is the fairness of the earth less than the brightness of the sky – intensely blue, not a cloud visible; and although the Alcazar stands in the midst of a noisy city, the silence and solitude are complete.

Everything in this apartment is disposed for the king. He is greatly changed. A mortal illness has seized him, and he has barely escaped with his life. As he moves feebly along the marble floor, he is supported on either side by Don Juan de Mañara and Garcia de Padilla, then sinks exhausted upon a pile of eastern cushions prepared for him on an estrado. Naturally the two favourites, who tend him with anxious care, hate each other with the deadly bitterness of rivals, ever on the watch to turn every word and action against each other; especially Garcia de Padilla, a coarse likeness of his beautiful sister, always on the lookout for his own interests, and ready to pander to the basest vices of the king.

It would really seem as if the prayers and litanies offered up for Don Pedro’s life (especially by his Jewish subjects, whom he greatly favours) have been efficacious in saving his life.

Pale and feeble as he now appears, the steely hardness of his blue eyes is even more remarkable than in health, and the harsh intonation of his voice comes with a strange vigour from one so weak.

As he sinks exhausted on a divan, a waft of music comes from the patio without, a twanging of guitars deftly handled, and the silver tone of viols, with the clapping of hands of the Nubian slaves who swarm in the palace; the music ever and anon broken by the soft tones of a lute, played with infinite skill by a Moorish captive, whose nimble fingers mark and accentuate the rhythm.

“What do the fools mean?” demands Don Pedro, as burst after burst of music penetrates into the hall.

“Rejoicing, my lord,” answers Garcia, “at your Highness’s happy recovery.”

“Recovery —por Dios! and it was time, unless I was to chant the rest of my life in purgatory. Is it true that, counting on the report of my death, the bastard Enrique has had himself crowned at Toledo, and struts at the Alcazar like any peacock? Can it be possible my brain is weak? or was it a dream in my delirium?”

A silence follows, which neither the supple Garcia nor the politic Don Juan cares to break. Absolute quiet has been enjoined. Yet it is as much as their heads are worth not to reply.

“If you do not find your tongues quickly, my friends, the axe shall silence them for ever. Ho! slave,” and with a loud sound, he strikes with a handle of iron on a plate of steel.

In an instant the music ceases, and a gigantic Nubian, perfectly unclothed, appears armed with a marble-hilted javelin.

Something in the sudden apparition of this grotesque figure, as if the earth had opened to cast him forth, so strikes the fancy of the king that he laughs aloud.

“Begone, Hassan,” he says, “I did but jest; the necks of my loving companions are precious. But, amigos mios, I counsel you, trifle not with me. I am patient at no time, and now that my reason is scarcely settled from the disturbance it has had, I am dangerous to play with.”

“Play with!” replies Don Juan, who cares little for threats of any kind. “God forbid! Your Grace knows I fear nought. You shall judge of my faithfulness, for I am here ready to answer all you please to ask.”

“How here?” asks Don Pedro, reddening with a sudden flush. “Where else should you be?”

“Why, with the new king at Toledo,” promptly answers Mañara, nettled at the mention of the axe. “The new king, who is crowned by right and authority of the Holy Father, Urban V.; Don Pedro of Castile being legally and civilly defunct, by reason of the ban of excommunication pronounced against him, it is the fashion now to cry, ‘Long live El Rey Enrique el Caballero.’ Perhaps your Grace did not know that you were already dead?”

As he speaks an ashy pallor spreads over the king’s face, and out of his bloodless lips the words come thickly:

“So, so, at Toledo!” he gasps, clenching his hands in the cushions at his head. “Crowned? My brain turns. It was not a dream?”

“By my faith, no, an army is encamped outside on the Tagus, a garrison within. The troops a little mixed in nationality it is true, but the promise of the support of the great companies under Du Guesclin, to be sent to restore the Lady Blanche – ”

“Restore the Lady Blanche? Why, she is locked up in the castle of Talavera, out of which no woman ever came alive. It is you, Don Juan, who play the fool!” exclaims Pedro, raising himself up, and seizing him savagely by the shoulder. “By the living Christ! your life is in my hand.”

“I care not,” is the retort, shaking off the king’s hand, who, weaker than he deems himself, falls back muttering curses. “Your Grace has questioned me, I tell the truth. Don Enrique holds Toledo, the Lady Blanche is with him. Here is Don Garcia, ask him, if you doubt me. The queen, your mother, had no power to march troops against the Conde de Trastamare while you lay between life and death.”

As he speaks, a sullen fury falls on the king. He sits perfectly motionless, his head pressed between his hands.

“Call hither the Lady Padilla,” he says, in a voice so veiled it is scarcely audible.

So quickly did her presence answer the summons it would seem as though she had been hiding near at hand. Her dark face shone out against the glitter of the many-hued hall. A long white robe falls to her feet, and she waits until the king addresses her.

“In my sickness, Maria,” says Don Pedro, in a voice that still sounds unfamiliar to those around (Maria starts with an alarmed glance and looks at him), “you tended me night and day. Why were you silent on what touches me so nearly as the advance of Enrique upon Toledo and the escape of the queen?”

“Because,” answers Maria, her eyes softening into a glance of ineffable love, “your life was dearer to me than all else. What did it matter if the Bastard reigned from the Pyrenees to the Pillars of Hercules if my Pedro died?”

“There spoke the true woman!” exclaims the king. “Now, by my faith, you have conquered me, Maria, quite.” Then taking her hand, he draws her down upon the seat beside him.

“Listen to me, Juan and Garcia,” turning to them, “you know me, I am El Rey Justiciar. In evidence of the love I bear this lady, and to put to rest once for all any questions which might arise by reason of the many traitors around me, at my death, I declare as successor to the throne of Castile, the Infante Alonso, Maria de Padilla’s son. At the earliest moment our ministers shall ratify the act, and call on my nobles to do homage to him as my heir. Are you satisfied now, sweet one? This will seal the bond,” and he draws her face, glowing with triumph, towards his own, and impresses a kiss on her warm lips.

“And Blanche?” whispers Maria in an undertone, but not so low but that both Don Juan and her brother hear.

“Ah, Maria, will you still keep me to my bargain?” answers Don Pedro, with a sigh.

“Yes,” quickly responds Maria, “I do, especially now that she is at large.”

“At large? I cannot believe it. But, Maria – Blanche, divorced and dishonoured, cannot harm you. I shall never set eyes on her again.”

“Yes, sire, but as long as she lives, she will raise up France against you.”

“And if she dies, do you think they will let me bide?”

“My sister,” puts in Don Garcia, “leave the matter to the judgment of the king. Urge him no more, I pray you, at a moment he has, by such a signal act of favour, named your child successor to the throne.”

“Truly, I love not Blanche,” says Don Pedro, “I will speedily take Toledo, and imprison her where she shall not escape. But her life– ”

“Yes, her life!” cries Maria, rising from the estrado. “It is mine, you promised me. I claim it.”

“Now, por Dios, Maria, but you press me sore. Is it that you seek to be queen yourself?”

“Perhaps,” she answers, carelessly. “What if I do? Have you not told me a thousand times I was born to wear a crown?”

“This is no time for trifling,” answers Don Pedro, sternly. “I have made your son a future king. Let that suffice. The blood of Fadique clings to me still. I saw him in my fever, there, outside, in the patio, where he fell bathed in blood. And now another ghost will haunt me in that pale-faced demoiselle. So nearly had I passed into the silent land beyond the grave that to my weakened brain shadows came to me as real. I fain would add no more to that dim company which rise up in the silent night to curse me.”

As the words pass his lips, a page, fancifully attired as an Eastern slave, appears between the golden pillars of the hall, and, after prostrating himself on the ground, raises his arms aloft in Moorish fashion, and announces: “The queen-mother.”

Hastily advancing, Mary of Portugal stands before her son. On her face are the signs of deep emotion, almost of terror, as she hastily observes the impression her presence has produced.

“My son,” she says, in a low voice, “my son,” and as she speaks the words she stretches out her arms to embrace him. Then raising her head, her eyes fall upon the figure of Maria de Padilla, erect in the shadow behind, and in a moment the words she was about to utter die on her lips, and a tremor passes over her.

“You here!” her face flushing crimson, “you – Jezebel – that come between my son and me. I might have guessed it. I came to speak of mercy, before you who live by blood. Of honour – to one who never knew the word. Well do I know you and the current of your thoughts, and that you would prompt my son to an act of cruelty that will shake his very throne, and place him in the certainty of an alliance of vengeance.”