“What new constellation has your greatness procured us?” asks Don Silvela Velasco, turning to the Marqués de Villena—a known lover of music. “Who is he? Not the young king himself, with all his talent, can excel him.”

“He sings well,” is the answer of the marquess, listening attentively until the final cadenza, and giving his opinion with the decision of a master. “But I know nothing of him. Minstrels were commanded to be present, and he is come. His voice and the music please me. I am accounted, as you know, my lords, a judge in these matters. You are aware that if the king has any merit, he owes it entirely to my training.”

Again the sweet voice sounds, this time with more power in its tones.

“Who is he? Can no one tell us?” asked the archbishop, breaking off in a discussion of the value of certain jewels which he had purchased from a Jew.

“A wandering estudiante who is travelling through the north,” answered the chamberlain, advancing with doffed cap and bended knee; for the Regents exacted the same respect in addressing them as the kings of Castile; “recommended to me by a friend as skilled in his art.”

“That cannot be doubted,” said the archbishop. “Bring him round, that we may judge of his appearance.”

This command was promptly obeyed, and a youth stood forward on the edge of the dais, habited in a long dark mantle of coarse cloth, sandals on his bare feet, and a mass of thick fair hair combed down so straight under a pointed cap it was almost impossible to distinguish his features. Not that he appeared the least dismayed, but stood perfectly at his ease in front of the radiance of the scented lamps, his zither in his hand, minutely surveying the faces of those before him.

“Your looks proclaim you young,” said the archbishop, struck for a moment with a fancied resemblance to some one he had seen. “Where do you come from? By our Lady of Saragossa, you have a pleasant voice.”

“Grandeza,” answered the minstrel, “I am an orphan, of good birth, reduced to the greatest want. To-day, upon my word, I have not eaten a meal.”

“Poor boy! here you shall have your fill. How long have you been so reduced?”

“Since my father’s death, your Grace. He died when I was a child, and the wicked governors

he placed over me have despoiled me of my inheritance. You see me, mighty señors, reduced to sing for food.”

“A right good youth, and worthy of largess,” observed Don Pedro de Mendoza, ill-famed as the most ruthless squanderer of the royal treasure. (If Don Pedro could have scanned the expression of the face before him, he might have seen such a smile of scorn gathering about the thin lips as would have startled him.)

“The saints bless you!” was the reply, “and deal with you as you do to others. As for me,” with a deep sigh, “I am not only starving, but at this present time I know that my sinful guardians are carousing at my expense.”

“The Virgin protect us!” exclaimed the archbishop. “Did ever man hear of such infamy!”

“If the youth speaks truth,” returned Villena, not to be behindhand in the expression of sympathy, “the matter should be submitted to the king’s judges, and right done in ample restitution.”

“Otherwise it were a disgrace to the government of the Regents,” put in Don Pedro de Mendoza.

“Restitution is not sufficient,” sententiously observed the archbishop in a pompous voice, intended to impress the company with his high sense of justice. “If the guilt of his guardians be proved, death is their proper due.”

“Methinks your holiness is somewhat severe,” put in the minstrel, making a low obeisance.

“Not at all, not at all! We rule Castile and Leon, not the king, who is disabled by bodily infirmities. It is our duty to have justice done.”

“What noble sentiments!” exclaimed the singer, clasping his hands. “Happy is the king to possess such servants! I leave my appeal with you, my lords, confident that you will see me righted.”

But what he said, though spoken low and in an altered voice, had such a familiar ring in it as to make the archbishop again look sharply at him; then, as if satisfied, he turned away.

Now the festival had continued far into the night, and, as the fumes of the generous wine mounted to their brains, the guests spoke more and more openly to each other.

Again had the voice of the minstrel been raised, during a momentary pause, as he intoned with extraordinary power and skill The March of Bernardo del Carpio:

And as his notes rang out in the great hall, the enthusiasm he excited so mastered the stately company that they rose en masse to drink to the health of Castile.

“And of the Regents!” cried Mendoza, “our capable leaders! Don Enrique must be put aside. He is sick and unfit to reign. What say you, Caballeros? Methinks the race of Trastamare is played out.”

“Agreed! agreed!” came from all sides.

“And who can better replace him than the Regents?” cried the Conde de Lerma, who had good reason to tremble lest, when the young king came to reign, he should discover the villainies of which he had been guilty.

“And I! and I!” shouted Velasco and Peralta, tossing high their goblets.

Indeed, the whole company was in a state of violent excitement, to which not only the wine, but the patriotic ballads of the minstrel had much contributed.

“My lords! my lords!” cried the archbishop, rising from his seat, seriously alarmed at the imprudent vehemence of his partisans, “these are matters not to be lightly mentioned. Such words are treason if they get abroad. To-morrow is the fiesta of the young king. His Grace has invited us to a special tertulia in honour of the event. I drink to his health, and better capacity to fill the high place he inherits!”

A palpable sneer was in his voice as he added these words in a low tone.

“Yes, the fiesta of our king,” added the Marqués de Villena, amid a general chorus of mocking laughter. He was no more loyal than the prelate, but less hypocritical, and, like him, fully aware of the dangerous consequences, should any premature knowledge of a conspiracy get abroad. “I pray you, Grandezas, to disperse quietly. Whatever be in your minds, this is no place to discuss it.”

And so they parted, each one to his abode, attended by bands of armed followers with torches.

The singer was left alone, but he was met at the portal by a friend, attired like himself as an estudiante, and thus together they passed unheeded into the night.

Great curiosity was felt, especially by Don Pedro de Mendoza, the treasurer, as to how the king had obtained money to defray the expenses of the tertulia which had been announced. Mendoza knew that the coffers were empty. Had he borrowed money from the King of Aragon, or some powerful northern noble? Had he unearthed a treasure, or contracted with the Jews? If so, how could it happen that he was ignorant of it?

Again all the great nobles assembled, and many more, from south and north, who had not been present at the entertainment in the Casa del Cordon, composed especially of the supporters of the Regents.

Most of those who came from afar had never seen the king (so purposely was he secluded), and looked on him as a sickly youth, destined soon to follow his father to the tomb. It was this idea, indeed, sedulously spread abroad, which added so much to the prestige of the Regents. If the king died, who was to succeed him?

When the cedar doors are thrown open, a huge undecorated gallery is disclosed, devoid of any furniture except bare wooden tables and benches placed on either side.

At the head the young king is seated in a chair of state, surmounted by the arms of Spain. On one side the hereditary Constable of Castile (Condestable) supports him, clad in complete armour; on the other the chamberlain, Don Martinez de Velases, who introduces the company. As each feudatory advances, Don Enrique inclines his head. His manner is courteous but very cold, as he raises his hand to signify the special place assigned to each at the table, where a piece of bread and a cup of water are placed.

Not even the rigid rules of formal etiquette imposed on the Spanish Court can conceal the amazement of each grandee as he takes his place on the hard bench, but the presence of the young king checks all outward expression.

As the Regents enter and sit down with the rest (no special seat having been assigned them) a momentary flush passes over the king’s face.

“I fear the food provided does not suit your palates,” he says, at last, unable any longer to affect to misunderstand the astonished glances each one exchanges with the other, specially the Archbishop of Toledo, who, with a highly offended air, places himself before his portion of bread and water; “but I myself am frugally fed. I hope this may reconcile you to it.”

“Is the young king mad?” is whispered round the room, as each guest endeavours to swallow the unpalatable food; “or is it the caprice of a silly boy, soon to be deposed?” Indeed, in this sense, the eccentricities of this so-called banquet are very agreeable to the greater number present, as plainly displaying his incapacity for reigning.

Meanwhile, Don Enrique, seated at the head of the board, has partaken of his portion of bread and water with apparent relish.

“If your Graces,” he says, breaking an icy silence, “are not contented with the first course I have offered you, I hope the second will be more to your taste. Will you follow me, Grandezas?” rising from his chair.

“A second course!” There was, then, something prepared to eat, and a buzz of satisfaction passed round, as each caballero left his hard bench to follow the young king.

A vast hall lay beyond, of interminable extent, dimly lighted, and hung with black. A coffin, covered with a pall, lay beside an altar in the midst, surmounted with a crucifix. Shrouds lay beside it, with implements to dig a grave, and all the other ghastly paraphernalia of the dead.

“Close the doors, jefe,” said the king, in a voice of command never heard from his lips before, as he placed himself like a young judge in front of the altar. “You see, my lords, the second course I serve to you. But before you partake of it, I would address some questions to those who have up to this time governed in my name. Stand forth, Archbishop of Toledo, joint Regent of the kingdom, and tell me how many kings you have known in Castile?”

“Excellency,” answered the bewildered prelate, growing cold under the apprehension that not only the king was mad, but was about to murder him, “I have known three: your grandsire of glorious memory, your father, Don Juan, and yourself.”

“For shame, your Grace!” exclaimed Enrique, in an austere tone. “What! A prelate lie? How dare you, at your age, assert that you have known only three kings, when I, who have barely reached man’s estate, can reckon at least double the number? Yes, my assembled nobles, barons, princes, prelates, knights, and ricoshombres, who know me so little as to think, because I am young and inexperienced, I can be deceived. Six sovereigns reign in Castile besides the lawful heir, carefully excluded from all power, to the damage of the state. Now I call upon the usurpers of my rights, especially the most venerable archbishop,” launching at him a look of bitter reproach, “his Grace the Marqués de Villena, Master of Santiago, also the treasurer, bearing the high name of Don Pedro de Mendoza, and the other ‘kings’ to lay their submission at my feet!”

Words cannot paint the consternation of the noble company at these words and at the commanding aspect of the young king as he stood forth, the awful emblems of death behind him.

What doom was he about to pronounce? What judgment would he pass on the guilty? And it need not be said how many of those present felt themselves to be such, and with the superstitious horror of the age at anything unusual, trembled lest by some occult knowledge he had read their treacherous thoughts.

Then came denials, vehement asseverations, protestations, and recriminations; loudest of all, because most in danger, sounded the sonorous voice of the archbishop and the mellifluous tones of Villena.

“If we have erred,” cried the marquess, “it is only by excess of zeal to spare your Highness from the burden of public affairs.”

But Don Enrique, far from being pacified by these protestations, grew more and more indignant as one after another of the Regents invoked every saint in the calendar in protest of their innocence.

“There is yet another pledge to be fulfilled,” said the king, addressing the archbishop, who, bold as he was, literally trembled under the clear

gaze fixed on him, as though he read his inmost thoughts. “At the banquet with which you regaled the court so lavishly, while I was kept without a maravedi, you remember a young singer, whose wrongs at the hands of his guardians you promised to redress. I am that unhappy youth, and by the wounds of Christ, I swear that you shall keep your word!”

A dead silence followed. No one dared to speak, lest he might hasten the catastrophe all felt was impending.

At a sign from the king, the curtains before the doors were withdrawn, and in a blaze of light the Alcaide of Burgos appeared in his furred cap and gown, on one side of him a priest arrayed as for a funeral mass, and on the other the headsman in a red robe, a gleaming axe resting on his shoulder.

“Nothing now remains, my lords,” continued the king, “but to carry out the sentence you have passed on yourselves. Prepare for death, Regents of Castile; and you, executioner, stand forth! See that your instrument is in good order. We desire not to cause needless pain, nor that these guilty souls should go unshriven; therefore, holy father,” turning to the priest, “such respite as is required for confession shall be granted.”

No sooner had these awful words passed the king’s lips, spoken with the air and bearing of a sovereign determined to be obeyed than the archbishop and the Marqués de Villena cast themselves before him on their knees.

“Grant us but life, son of the noble Trastamare,” pleaded the archbishop, suddenly seizing the king’s hand, as, gazing earnestly into his face, he became aware of a certain yielding in his bearing as he contemplated the humiliation of those two great statesmen, for so many years masters of Castile. “Give us life at least to repent of our misdeeds.”

“I will,” answered Don Enrique, “upon certain conditions,” the sweet smile natural to him lighting up his face as he graciously raised them from their knees; “but it must be true repentance and no falling back into mortal sin. You are my witnesses, hidalgos,” turning to the assembled nobles standing closely pressed together, in a common fear of some general accusation, “of their own sentence against themselves, and now of my generous pardon. Now listen, my Lord Archbishop,” addressing the prelate who had so often tyrannised over his childhood, standing with his hands clasped in humble attitude before him, “and you, Villena, Master of Santiago, and Mendoza; on this day sixteen years ago I was born. Never, while I live, shall my birthday be darkened by deeds of blood, but you shall remain in strict imprisonment until a full restitution is made to the State of your shameful spoliation. Those of my guests whom I have summoned here as spectators to profit by the lesson may depart in peace, but those of the Regency, ‘the Kings,’ as they are called, shall be conducted to prison by my faithful balasterdos, there to remain till justice is satisfied. Guards, remove the prisoners!”

“It will all come out well,” whispered Don Pedro de Mendoza, a gay and rollicking cavalier, not easily intimidated, to the Marqués de Villena, much more cast down at his fall, as they passed up the horrible apartment out amid sheaves of glittering lances. “He has never found out we meant to depose him. Lucky for us, or our heads might really have been cut off!”

That the charming young king did not live to verify the promise of his youth (A.D. 1407) is one of the misfortunes of history. The delicate scabbard was not stout enough to hold the noble blade. In other words, his feeble health gave way under the cares of sovereignty. He died prematurely at the early age of twenty-eight, leaving an infant son, Don Juan II., to succeed him. Doña Catalina, his wife, or, as we know her, Catherine of Lancaster, daughter of Costanza (the daughter of Pedro the Cruel), married to John of Gaunt, was appointed regent for her son—a placid, good-tempered princess, by reason of her English blood, and a great favourite with the Castilians.

CHAPTER XXI

Juan II. and Doña Isabel of Portugal—Execution of the Conde de Luna

At this time Queen Catalina holds her court at Burgos—a fat, foolish dowager, by no means inheriting the fierce passions of her grandparents—Don Pedro el Cruel and Maria de Padilla. In close alliance with the highly cultivated Moors, as had been her husband El Enfermo, Catalina also favours the fine arts, and educates her son to love those elegant cancioneros sung by her husband with such art, the metre of which will never be surpassed.

Hundreds of these romances, current in that day, were softened and refined into real poetry, and as such have come down to us as absolute gems. Long stories in prose too, such as Amadis de Gaul, began now to be written, to be followed by the Romaunt of the Rose, as also many learned treatises on government and science, taken from the Arabic; and, wonder of wonders, Don Pedro Ayala actually translated Livy into Spanish!

In this literary movement the good Queen Catalina took part, and inducted her little son into an amount of learning remarkable in that age. He was fond of books and could speak and versify fluently in Latin. Courage he had, and knowledge he acquired, growing up under his mother’s care a gentle, indolent young prince like his father, but absolutely without will, which made him a prey to the first resolute spirit who gained his confidence.

Such a one was found in the person of Don Alvarez de Luna, Conde de Gormaz, the last representative of the ideal Knight of Spain. Bold, romantic, brave, his masterful individuality imposed itself on the artistic temperament of the young king much as an eagle might foster and protect a helpless dove.

As the descendant of a noble Biscayan family, whose ancestors had done good service to Enrique de Trastamare in his many sudden flights and rapid advances in the wild passes of the Pyrenees, Luna had claims on the young king. Ever the prominent figure in court and camp, Don Juan from his birth had been thrown into his companionship, whose handsome person and courtly manners charmed his boyish taste and resulted in an ascendancy so absolute as to absorb all the power of the state. Nor could remonstrance, conspiracy, or open acts of revolt for many years shake his position. Indeed, opposition only seemed to endear him to Don Juan, who rapidly advanced him to the high office of Constable of Castile and Leon and Grand Master of Santiago.

Possessed of the entire love and confidence of his master, the court was filled with his kindred and partisans; Don Juan saw with his eyes and regulated every action at his pleasure. Even in the matter of his marriage, instead of uniting himself to the French Princess Fredegonde, whom he preferred, at Luna’s desire he espoused his cousin, Doña Isabel of Portugal.

Such an excess of favour naturally raised an immense animosity against him. Every noble and ricohombre in Castile hated him on his own account. The Infante of Aragon headed a party to dethrone him. All this at length coming to the knowledge of Don Juan, caused him throes of extreme doubt as to his conduct, overruled for a time by the masterful will of Luna, but to bear fruit at length as the consequence of the inherent weakness of his nature.

Young as he still was, Don Juan had been twice married. The new queen, his cousin, was a dark-complexioned beauty, with a skin like a ripe peach and the keen black eyes of a Zingara. No sooner had she arrived at Burgos than she came to understand that she owed her position solely to the favour of Luna, and that Don Juan would have preferred the French princess. Nothing could be more galling to her pride, and Isabel was very proud. At once she resolved upon his ruin, and steadily carried out her plan. If Juan was to be governed by a favourite, it should be herself.

All through his long reign she battled with his weakness, and was destined to suffer from a series of domestic mortifications caused by the helpless vacillation of his temper. In common with the kings his predecessors of the Trastamare line, he was too vacillating to be capable of much real feeling. But the young queen would tolerate no divided sway. Arrogant and ambitious by nature, she resolved to exercise an absolute control over his conduct. Now the Conde de Luna formed an insuperable barrier to her scheme. He must be removed, but his fall should be brought about by no violent action, lest Don Juan’s sensitive nature should take alarm. Her arms must be the wily weapons of her sex; she must work on the king’s admiration for her—as a poetic embodiment of his fancy—and his amiable desire to gratify her in all things.

So well did she act her part that he gradually grew cold towards his favourite. His advice, formerly so anxiously sought, was not asked; many acts were performed without his knowledge. Even his company, up to this time indispensable as the air he breathed, was dispensed with for days at a time. Such a change could not but be noted by the keen eyes of Luna, but his belief in his ascendancy and the necessity of his counsels was too absolute to give him as yet any serious uneasiness.

Don Juan, newly married to a princess selected by himself, whose person pleased his fickle taste, was preoccupied and in love. These changes were but as passing clouds—the horizon beyond was clear. He would soon tire, as he did of every one else, and return to him as before. Such was the belief on which he acted, leaving the queen to mature her plans unopposed.

The king is seated alone with the queen in the castle of Burgos at a table of inlaid marble, spread with wine. Books, too, are placed near at hand, for he is never without his favourite author, John de Menu. The room is small and lofty, a species of closet such as is found so often in royal palaces of that date, and was invariably chosen as a royal retiring-room. The walls are panelled in oak, pencilled with gold, on which is stretched rare tapestry, representing in all the flush of silken thread the encounters of the Christians against the Moors—Pelazzo in the cave of Cavadonga, and the triumph of the Cid. Steel mirrors, in richly carved frames of those massive patterns peculiar to Spain, fling back the brilliant sunshine. It is a blaze of light and colour. Velvet hangings heavy with gold shroud the low doors and shade the narrow windows, which are open. Bright in the pure air stream in the branches of fragrant limes, long walnut leaves and sycamores—within an enclosed garden, shrouded by a quaint old tower which forms part of the city walls.

Isabel, in the first flush of her radiant youth, looks a perfect picture for a poet, in a long white robe, brocaded with gold, her pointed shoes just appearing from under the folds, a row of large pearls binds her head, setting off the ebony blackness of her hair. Her sparkling eyes bent on the king entrance him more than his favourite ballads. She might be Egilona, or Doña Teresa, or Angelica moving before him. The day, the soft air, the silence, create a mesmerism about her which fires his sentimental nature and makes her for the moment paramount to all else.

Nor is she at all indifferent to the attentions of the young sovereign, her lord, who sits smoking opposite her, so daintily apparelled in a velvet surcoat sown with pearls and bound with dark fur, open sleeves hanging from the shoulder displaying his delicate hands, in the mode of the day; a white bonnet, set with a large jewel, resting on his flowing locks. No wonder that this graceful refinement of his nature has gained her heart, that delicate symmetry of face and form he inherits from his father and grandfather, El Rey Caballero.

Turning his large, inexpressive eyes towards her as she speaks, he bows, and, raising her hand to his lips, pledges her in a cup of Val de Peñas.

“How sweet is this solitude in your company,” he says, heaving a deep sigh of relief as he sinks back on the chair. “I would fain turn a few verses in honour of my beautiful consort, but the day is too hot.” Here he tries to conceal a yawn but does not quite succeed; then, looking round, “It is astonishing that for once we are left alone; but the constable has not interrupted us with affairs of state.”

“Why do you permit these unseemly liberties, my lord?” asks the queen sharply.

Don Juan does not reply, but kisses her jewelled hand, laying it caressingly on his own. What a solace to have to deal with this queenly creature instead of the imperious constable, always urging on him some imperative command, or to be plagued by those who call themselves “the friends of his dynasty,” constantly insisting with equal persistency on the necessity of his banishment! Between the two his life has become a burden, to say nothing of the freaks of his young son, the Prince of the Asturias (the first to bear that title), who passes his whole time in a succession of rebellions.

“It is not for me, my Reina,” he answers at last, “to abuse the constable, I leave that to my son Henry. But for Luna, I should never have possessed the treasure of this little hand.” Again he passes his long white fingers over hers, turning the rings she wears to the light and examining them one by one, as though he would fain find a pretext for retaining them in his own.

A cloud passes over the glowing face of the queen. She suddenly remembers that she was imposed on him by the Conde de Luna as a reason of state.

This puts her in a rage whenever she thinks of it.

“Do you imagine, my lord, that that recommends him to me?” she answers, in a tone which betrays her feelings. “How do I know that you do not still prefer the French Princess Fredegonde to me?”

A blush and a faint denial is the reply, and a murmured assurance that such perfection as she possesses makes him the envy of all the sovereigns his neighbours. The timid Don Juan shrinks from any form of attack; he is so tormented that he scents trouble in the air.

The queen sees her advantage, and continues: “Believe me, I, at least, love you, if you care for that. Too much so, indeed, to bear to see you so overshadowed as you are. Your son, too, is drawing away your subjects from you. A great sacrifice must be made or you will never reign.”

“A sacrifice?” answers Don Juan vaguely. He affects not to understand her, but reddens with annoyance at this false note in the harmony of their interview.

“Oh, Juan, how can you pretend to mistake me!” she cries, clasping her hands; “is it the first time I have told you that while the constable lives I shall never have a happy hour?” Her countenance saddens with real or pretended distress; a deep sigh heaves her bosom, upon which rests a collar of jewels and strings of Orient pearls. With her kerchief she wipes away imaginary tears. Don Juan, who is vaguely contemplating her as a vision of beauty, is suddenly greatly distressed, and rises to comfort her. She puts him back with a pettish motion, and with a troubled air he resumes his seat.

“How do I know,” she continues, in a lower voice, “that the magic arts Luna exercises over you may not be employed against me?”

“Magic arts!” faintly ejaculates the king.

“Yes, my lord, all Spain knows it, and is weary of the wickedness of this presumptuous man. It is by infernal arts that he sways you. He will bring the kingdom to destruction. Did he not, like a traitor, turn back from the walls of Granada when the Zegrins were with you, and he should have led your victorious army into the walls of the Alhambra? Does he not conspire with the Infante of Aragon against your life?”

So vivid is the picture she calls up of the misdeeds of Luna, that real tears now course each other down her cheeks. She believes in what she says, and this gives conviction to her words. She believes him to be guilty of all of which he is accused, and she knows that he will cross her influence with Don Juan. Above all, she dreads the mysterious action of that occult power he is said to possess. Superstition and ignorance go together in her mind. A Portuguese princess of the fourteenth century is alive to all the prejudices of the time.

“What!” cries Don Juan, starting up from his chair in a burst of generous feeling, which he is quite incapable of sustaining, “can you, my queen, ask me seriously to dismiss from my councils and from my heart the hero who has so faithfully upheld the glory of Castile? The tales you accept as true are but the suggestions of envy. The constable has ever done his duty. What do I not owe him! Was it not he who rescued me as a boy from the strong fortress of Tordesillas, where a powerful league, headed by my treacherous cousin, the Infante of Aragon, would have shut me up for life? Who was it that, when the Moors, emboldened by the weakness of Castile, refused to pay the tribute, led on our armies against them and forced them to submission? And if he did not enter the city of Granada the fault was not in him, but in my seditious nobles, whose divided counsels forced him to retreat. Is this the man, the bulwark of my throne, who alone has stood by his king against the factious nobles, the conspiracies of his kindred, and the machinations of his own son? Would you have me deprive him of the honours he so well deserves? High Constable I have created him, and such, by the Holy Mother, he shall die.”

So unexpected an outburst completely overset all the queen’s calculations. Was her influence so small for the great task she had undertaken? she asked herself, as she gazed in wonder at the virile expression which sat on the king’s chiselled features, and gave such unwonted energy to his words.

She smiled, however, as she replied: “Aye, my liege, all this may be true, but why has Don Alvarez de Luna shown this great zeal for his king? Because, while he defended his cause he was forwarding that ambition for which he has sold his soul. The interests of Don Juan de Castile are his own. Believe me in this, my dear and honoured lord, though I risk your displeasure in saying so.”

“Such indeed are the accusations of his enemies,” answered the king, already cooling down from his brief display of impetuosity; in fact, he was now turning over in a helpless confusion of ideas whether indeed the constable was in league with the devil, as Isabel represented, and if magic really gave him the extraordinary influence he exercised over him. “Surely you must allow, my queen,

that it is rather Luna’s genius and courage which provoke the jealousy of my nobles?”

“Fatal have been those qualities to the kingdom!” cried the queen, at once seizing on the advantage his hesitation afforded her. “The whole nation is alarmed. No one more than I,” she added, her voice deepening into a delicious whisper as a blush overspread her face. She paused, the colour spreading over throat and neck. “What am I, to resist this universal charmer,” she added, “an untutored girl, when the queen, your Highness’s first consort, is said to have yielded to his blandishments?”

“That is a base calumny!” answered Don Juan, again galvanised into a momentary show of feeling. “I do not believe it; I never did. I had the word of the queen. Alvarez himself denied it on the sacraments. I pray you, Doña the Queen,” turning somewhat haughtily upon Isabel, whose fingers were playing with the pearls upon her neck, her eyes modestly turned down, “do not revive so painful a suspicion. The honour of a Queen of Castile is impregnable. It is treason to doubt it.”

“It is because I am true to you, Juan, that I tremble. The dread of this diabolical man haunts me. He may cast a spell on me also.”

Though her look was determined, she spoke in a soft voice, flashing a look on the king out of those dark orbs of hers which seemed to catch the rays of the outer sunshine and strike straight into his heart. Then she extended her hand with a smile so sweet in its dignity as altogether to melt his sensitive nature, always realising in her the heroine of his poetic dreams.

“What rapture to be thus loved!” he murmured. “Can I deny this exquisite creature anything she desires?” No one, he told himself, had ever been so sweet as she. Ought he not to guard her from any chance of peril? Might not the accusation she had recalled be true? He had never dared to examine too closely the relations between the constable and the late Queen Maria de Aragon. How different was Isabel! Her thoughts were all for him. What ought he to do?

An abyss of unfathomable doubt engulfed him. Was Luna indeed an agent of the Evil One as she said, or was he his devoted servant and friend? And all the time these clashing thoughts were chasing each other through his weary brain, Isabel, by a caressing movement, was drawing closer and closer to him as he listened to the soft tones of her voice, so different to the authoritative accents of the constable.

“Fie, fie, my dear lord,” she was saying, “is it meet that he make of you but a painted image? A phantom in the state? With sorrow and shame your nobles behold it. Can you wonder that the prince hates him? Resolve, by one bold act, to rid yourself of him for ever. Banish him, imprison him, execute him, so that you reign.”

The sound of her words still lingered like music in the warm air, when a silver bell sounded in the ante-room, the tapestry before the door was withdrawn, and a page entered, making a profound obeisance.

“Don Juan the King,” he said, “the most revered the Bishop of Avila waits without on urgent business of state. He comes as the messenger of the Conde de Luna; he has already conferred with the secretary, Don Diego de Bavena.”

At this announcement, the queen hastily left her seat, bowed low to Don Juan, who kissed her hand with the utmost ceremony and led her to the door, where she again saluted him before joining her dueñas-in-waiting.

But the words had been spoken, the impression made, and, however Isabel might resent the intrusion of the bishop, she had almost persuaded the king that the days of the haughty favourite were numbered.

Whatever were the faults or the misdeeds of the House of Trastamare, the courtesy of their manners was beyond dispute.

Nothing could have been more inopportune than the entrance of the Bishop of Avila, but Don Juan received him in so royal a fashion he could not for a moment have imagined he was not welcome.

“To what happy chance do I owe your presence?” asked the king.

“Nothing auspicious brings me to your Highness,” was the reply, “in place of the High Constable.”

“Is he not coming?” asked the king quickly, a look of relief spreading over his face.

“He is not; a most base calumny prevents him. The Conde de Luna is accused of having caused the assassination of Don Alfonso de Vivars. Until his sovereign publicly justifies him, he prefers to retire to his castle of Portello.”

“What! Vivars murdered!” cried Don Juan, evincing genuine emotion at the news. “How did this come about? I know he is a violent opponent of the constable, but what grounds are there for suspicion that he is concerned in his death?”

“None that I know of,” answered the bishop, “except public report, which is alien to the Conde de Luna.”

“But I can give your Grace reasons,” cried a voice from within, “if you will listen to me, which you never do,” and the Prince of the Asturias stormed into the room.

“Peace! Infante, or speak with more respect,” said the king, the whole equilibrium of his gentle character overset by this turbulent onslaught.

Don Enrique was so violent and headstrong, that his father positively dreaded the sight of him when they met, which was not often. Not one jot, however, did this terrible son yield of his insolent bearing.

“Respect to whom respect is due, my lord,” were his words, his young face crimson with rage and defiance. “I presume that this holy ecclesiastic (that is the word, though it is nought in this case) is imparting to you the news of the new crime of your favourite. He is ready at getting rid of his enemies; but this time it is done so boldly in the broad face of day the whole nation cries shame. Will your Grace create him to some new honour to reward him?”

As he spoke, the prince looked so furious as he advanced close to his father that the bishop interposed, but in vain.

“It is of no use,” he continued, fronting the king almost with menace, “to give you proofs of the guilt of the constable in this atrocious vengeance on an enemy; you would not believe me if I did. But I do not intend to be silent. I shall address the nation, which has already judged him for what he is.”

All this time the king had stood silent, contemplating his son with an expression of contempt. He was used to his violence.

“Whatever you say will be undutiful,” he replied at last, “and unfitting for a father’s ear to hear.”

“Yes, if you call it so,” cried the prince, not at all impressed by this reproof, spoken with more gentleness than seemed possible. “Until you send that arch-impostor, Luna, to the scaffold, we shall never be friends.”

“Then let us remain enemies,” replied the king with dignity; “I will do no man’s bidding.”

But this forbearance only angered the prince all the more.

“The traitor who sold victory over the Moors for a bribe in a basket of figs is then to be let off? Under the walls of Granada he did it, the villain!”

“Be silent, Infante!” cried the king; “you know that story is a lie!”

“By Santiago, I hold it for the truth,” quickly replied the prince. “How comes he by such revenues if he takes no bribes? Not this alone, but many. What need has he of twenty thousand freedmen at his heels when he travels—more than your Highness requires? Has he told you, or have you, my lord bishop, his confidant, that the King of Navarre is advancing on Pamplona? By the living God, my father, if you do not banish this upstart I will join with him against you! Think well of it, my lord. I am brave in the field. I stay not at home, toying with a new wife, singing ballads and romanceros, nor have I poets to amuse me, or Latin books to peruse. But the people will follow me. You and your favourite will be alone, and I shall reign over Navarre, Aragon, Leon, and Castile before you die! Ha! ha!”

With these wild words on his lips, the Prince of the Asturias retired as noisily as he had come, leaving the king, his father, in a state of the deepest dejection. No suffering to him was so great as anger and dispute. Almost rather would he have resigned the crown to his son than endure his sneers. But Luna had always combated this idea vigorously; and now he had married a new queen, and he would like to reign, if only to display her beauty by his side. A feeling of relief came over him that at least she and the prince were not joined together against him, although both were working for the same end—the fall of the constable.

With a deep sigh he sank upon a chair; such violence unhinged him. He could not at once collect his ideas sufficiently to resume his conversation. Then he remembered the murder and the invasion of Navarre.

“Is what the Infante says about Navarre true?” he asked the bishop, who stood respectfully aloof.

“Yes, my lord, they are in force before Pamplona.”

“And he will join them,” muttered the king; “he will disgrace me.” Then aloud, “I pray you, reverend father, to furnish me with the details of this assassination. Am I to understand that the constable is still at Portello?”

“Yes, my lord, he is awaiting judgment.”

“Now who will command my armies?” cried Don Juan, driven to despair by all this accumulation of trouble. “Little do they know what the constable is, who seek his destruction! I pray you, good bishop, to retire for to-day. I am indisposed. Go to Portello and take the constable’s orders as to the disposal of the troops against the King of Navarre. Summon the constable to hasten to me at once.”

“No, my lord, he cannot come before his trial.”

“By the holy Santiago! was ever a man so tormented as I?” exclaimed Don Juan, wringing his hands. “I shall have to lead the troops against my own son, if he carries out his rebellious intention. Adieu, my lord bishop. Salute Luna for me. I never missed him so much as now.”

Whether the Conde de Luna was really guilty of the crimes imputed to him will ever remain an historic problem. He offered no defence now or before. Either he was too conscious of his innocence, or too proud to justify himself.

At length, pressed on all sides, the half-imbecile king signed the order for his arrest, glad at any price to rid himself of importunity. A body of troops under Zuñiga were secretly despatched to surround the castle of Portello, where he had remained since his accusation.

All these preparations could not altogether escape the knowledge of Luna, but, with a fatality common to great ministers, he despised his enemies too much to take any measures against them.

Within a darkened chamber the constable sits in the castle of Portello; no other guards or alguazils man the walls but such as habitually attend on his person. The magnificence of his household has been greatly reduced, as if in deference to the accusations against him. Until lately the cynosure of all eyes, the dispenser of all honours at court and in the camp, he has come to lead a solitary life.

Lost in deep thought he rests his head upon his hand, sitting at a table covered with piles of parchments and papers, under which lies a naked sword.

The night is gathering around. All the noises of the little town have died out. The bells of the churches have long since been silent; the couvre-feu has tolled; the sharp click of the sereno’s metal stick has ceased to strike on the pavement, and the voices of some late revellers have died away in the night wind.

Still the constable sits on. That the thoughts which so absorb him are painful the furrows upon his forehead show, and the deep sighs which occasionally escape him. At all times indifferent to the accessories of dress, now in the middle of life, the plainness of his attire presents a remarkable contrast to the splendour of the court. His mantle and vest are of black cloth of simplest fashion, and he wears none of those jewels which constitute the habitual insignia of rank.

The beauty of his countenance is remarkable. Long black hair, bright and glossy, curls back from his lofty brow, his features aquiline and pointed, of the true Spanish type, give great expression to his eyes, of a somewhat mystic expression, and the deep olive of his skin brings into prominence the rich jet of his pointed beard and moustache. The lightness of his figure and his slender make, not only impart to him height, but make him appear much younger than he really is.

Nor is there any indication about him as he sits so motionless at the table, under the light of a massive silver candelabra, of that supercilious arrogance which has so greatly incensed his enemies.

Altogether he looks born to command men and to fascinate women. Skilled in every accomplishment of the age, fabulously brave, a type of manly beauty, no wonder that Mary of Aragon succumbed to his power and beauty, in contrast to the feebleness of her husband; nor that Isabel, her successor, believing him to exercise magic arts, shrinks from his contact. But the magic of which they accuse him is in the man himself. Luna is the magician, and his commanding intellect, as of a Titan among minnows, has brought his name down from a remote period as one of the most remarkable characters recorded in history.

The low oaken door within the keep in which the chamber of the constable is situated opens suddenly, and an aged jefe stands before him; behind him is his page, Morales.

Resenting any intrusion on his solitude, he looks up sharply, and his eyes fix themselves on them with a menacing expression.

“How dare you enter uncalled for?” he asks in a stern voice, addressing his devoted servant, Gotor, whose white face and trembling limbs announce some extraordinary agitation. “Why are you shaking so, old man?”

“Oh, my lord! my lord! Listen! The royal