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?”
In a few moments, though not without a brave defense, the Maestro of St.
Jago was no more.