“Let us go!” are his words; “it is time.”
Seizing the bridle of his horse he is about to mount, when he is intercepted by one of Du Guesclin’s cousins.
“Wait a moment, my lord,” he says; “there is no haste,” and he draws him again into the tent.
Before he can reply, Don Enrique, who is watching, appears close to Don Pedro, armed at all points.
At first Don Pedro does not recognise him, not having seen him for many years, until the same cousin who seized the bridle of his horse, whispers:
“Sire, take care, your enemy is upon you,” and Enrique, now face to face with his brother, calls out in a voice which comes to him as a sinister echo out of long past years:
“Where is that son of a Jew who calls himself King of Castile?”
Upon which, dropping his mantle, Don Pedro, his face convulsed with passion, shouts out:
“You are a liar, Enrique de Trastamare. It is I who am king, the lawful son of King Alonso.”
Then, with all the concentrated fury of years of ferocious hate, the brothers fall upon each other in a death grapple.