  Maria’s chambers overlooked the groves and bowers of the garden, beyond which flowed the river, while the dim and distant sierra formed the horizon. It was morning, and she sat by the balcony instructing her dark-eyed, graceful daughter in the mournful but harmonious music of the time. Her attitude was very listless, and her dark lids rose not from the eyes which seemed too sad for tears. Soon she gave up her task but watched the child, as in the exuberance of youthful spirit she danced before her. “Alas, my daughter!” she murmured, “what fate is thine. Born to a royal heritage, thy uncertain fortune may sink beneath the wave which bears a rival to its haven. Yet—yet I dare not ask the boon which is my right before the world, as it is here. If I should claim the crown, he would not give it till he had murdered Blanche.” It was too true. With Pedro life was nothing in the scales of interest or impulse. And dearly as he loved Maria, he was too conscious of the policy which was necessary in his situation, to dare to proclaim her queen and her children heirs to the throne, while Blanche was yet alive. Don Fadrique who had known Maria in Toledo, was announced by her page and was admitted to her presence. Kneeling, he kissed the hand of the Padilla whose beauty he remembered, and which he found still as remarkable as ever, but of a darker, yet a gentler cast. “Welcome, Don Fadrique, to this our calmer home,” she said, and pointed to a seat near that from which she had arisen. “Your grace, the true divinity of these fair bowers, I trust may ever find in them a home of peace.” “The serpent’s sting is everywhere, my lord, and even here Death contends with Life.” She intended the words, and the look which accompanied them, for a warning, (a clearer one she dared not make,) but he understood her not. The maestro, charmed with the beauty of the Alcazar and the loveliness of Maria, ceased to wonder at Pedro’s fascination, and felt but little hope from any mediation in the cause of Blanche. But his word was passed to the queen, and his honor, even without that pledge, impelled him to its fulfillment. An hour had passed most agreeably, when the king sent Garcia de Padilla to request his presence in a private interview. As they walked through the rooms, and as he observed that few persons were to be seen, and that all the doors were guarded, a suspicion of the truth crossed his mind; but his resolute and generous nature repelled it. The king was in an inner apartment beyond the presence-chamber, called the “chamber of iron,” whose doors were guarded by several mace-bearers. Fadrique had only time to notice that Garcia and he were the only guests, when the door of “the chamber” was opened by Reboledo, who called to Fadrique to go into the king. Gently freeing his sword arm from his mantel, he entered, and was followed by Reboledo and the mace-bearers. “Seize the maestro!” said Pedro, in a stern voice to the guards. “Should a king play the traitor?” said Fadrique in a lofty tone, as he drew his sword and placed his back to the wall. “We are of Castile, my lord; her sons must be worthy of their heritage even in death.” “Villains!” exclaimed Reboledo to the guards, who hesitated to attack the gallant Fadrique, “do you not hear his grace’s order to kill the maestro?” —— |
|
