Fernando was conducted from the fortress where he had been lodged across the town of Arzella to the governor’s palace, and ushered with much state and ceremony into the great hall, where stood Zala-ben-Zala, surrounded by a crowd of Moorish nobles and officers in their splendid dresses of state; opposite them a few Portuguese in full armour, and in front Dom Enrique himself, also armed, his dark surcoat giving additional dignity to his great height and stately presence, he was bareheaded, and as pale as death.
“You are at liberty to speak with one another,” said Zala-ben-Zala. “Maybe the interview may change the mind of your highness.”
“I speak the mind of the council of Portugal,” said Enrique, in a voice of deep sadness. Then he stretched out his arms: “Oh, my Fernando, the choice was not for me,” he said.
Fernando held him fast for a moment, all the surroundings forgotten; and then they sat down together on a great divan and looked into each other’s face, and Fernando knew that Enrique had not brought his freedom.
“Come,” he said, “tell me your errand.”
“They will not yield the fortress,” said Enrique. “They offer any ransom, and the Moors accept none.”
“As God wills,” said Fernando, but he tightened his grasp of Enrique’s hand.
“My most dear brother, Pedro and João would have freed you; but I—that Christian town; and now I see the council risks your life—not for the Church, but for selfish power, and I—I lent my voice to theirs.”
“I, too, have thought much on it,” said Fernando, steadily; “of the obligations of the treaty, however ill our enemies have kept the lesser provisions of it.”
“What, they ill-use you?”