A DISCOVERY.
If the three hours had passed but slowly in the prisoner’s cell, their flight had not been more rapid at the court of King Philip. The monarch had continued to play with his favorite, Don Ramirez de Biscay; and the nobles, obliged by the rules of etiquette to remain standing, and unable to leave under any pretext, appeared sinking under a fatigue, rendered still greater by the weight of their armor.
Don Tarrasez, with half-closed eyes, stood motionless, resembling one of those statues cased in iron, ornamenting Gothic halls. The young D’Ossuna, almost worn out with weariness and sorrow, was leaning against a marble pillar. And King Philip, pacing up and down with hasty steps, paused occasionally to listen for some distant noise. At one time he stopped to examine the hour-glass, at another, with that mingling of superstitious feeling apparently as inconsistent with some points of his character as it was with that of Louis the Eleventh, he knelt before an image of the Virgin, placed on a pedestal of porphyry brought from the ruins of the Alhambra—and implored her to pardon him for the bloody deed that was now accomplishing. All was as silent as in the palace of Azrael, the Angel of Death; for no one, however high or exalted his rank, dared to speak without the permission of his sovereign. No sooner had the last grain of sand announced that the fatal hour had arrived, than the king joyfully exclaimed—
“The traitor’s hour has come!”
A low murmur ran through the assembly.
“The time has expired,” replied Philip; “and with it, Count de Biscay, your enemy is no more. He has fallen like the leaves of the olive-tree before the blast.”
“My enemy, sire?” exclaimed Don Ramirez, affecting surprise.
“Yes, count,” replied Philip. “Why repeat our words? Were you not the rival of Don Guzman in the affection of Donna Estella—and can rivals be friends? In truth, though we have not spoken of that at our council, our royal word is pledged; Donna Estella shall be yours! Yours are her beauty and her vast domains. Thus, count, when you hear tell of the ingratitude of sovereigns, you can say, we at least have not forgotten the true friend of the king and of Spain, who discovered the conspiracy and correspondence of Don Guzman with France.”
There was more of uneasiness in the countenance and manner of Don Ramirez than such gracious words from the lips of royalty seemed
calculated to excite, and it was with downcast eyes, as if shrinking from such public approval, he answered—
“Sire, it was with much repugnance I fulfilled a painful duty—”
He could not say more: his embarrassment seemed to increase. Tarrasez coughed, and as D’Ossuna’s gauntleted hand sought the hilt of his sword, he mentally ejaculated—“Before this man calls Donna Estella his, I will follow my noble cousin to the grave. Let me but see to-morrow’s dawn, and I will avenge him.”
The king continued:
“Your zeal and devotedness, Don Ramirez, shall be rewarded. The saviour of our throne, and, perhaps, of our dynasty, merits no insignificant reward. This morning we commanded you to prepare with our high chancellor the letters patent which will give you the rank of Duke and Governor of Valencia. Are these papers ready to be signed?”
Was it remorse that made Don Ramirez tremble for the moment, and draw back involuntarily? The king made a movement of impatience, and the count drew with some precipitation a roll of parchment from his bosom, and kneeling, presented it to the king, who received it, saying:
“To sign these letters patent shall be our first public act to-day. Treason has been already punished by the executioner—it is time for the monarch to reward his faithful servant.”
As the king unrolled the parchment, a scroll fell from it on the ground. With an involuntary cry, Don Ramirez sprang forward to seize it, but at a sign from the king, a page picked it up, and it was already in the hands of the king. Another moment, and the monarch’s face gloomed wrathfully, his eye flashed fire, and he furiously exclaimed:
“Holy Virgin, what is this!”